


Good Omens Fictober 2019

by LillysoftheValley



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Ancient Rome, Aziraphale attempts driving (Good Omens), Biblical Allusions (Abrahamic Religions), Birds, Captain Will Charity (The Adventurer: The Curse of the Midas Box), Cooking, Crepes, Crossover, Crowley's record collection (Good Omens), Dining at the Ritz (Good Omens), Ducks, Food, Funny Face (1957) - Freeform, Gen, Halloween Costumes, Humor, Ice Cream, Mild Angst, Multi, Museums, Picnics, Shakespeare, Slice of Life, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), St. James Park, Stargazing, The Adventurer: The Curse of the Midas Box - Freeform, The Bentley - Freeform, The Globe Theater, The Princess Bride (1987), The Princess Bride - William Goldman - Freeform, The bookshop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2020-11-08 15:14:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 32
Words: 21,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20837621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LillysoftheValley/pseuds/LillysoftheValley
Summary: Multi-chapter collection of ficlets based on prompts from renblakely's Ineffable Inktober on Instagram.Now with added links to the longer stories inspired by these promts!





	1. Index

Index of Prompts

1 - [ At the Ritz ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20837621/chapters/49556177)  
2 - [ Eden ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20837621/chapters/49589510)  
3 - [ Crossover ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20837621/chapters/49627415)  
4 - [ Reverse ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20837621/chapters/49661426)  
5 - [Alpha Centauri](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20837621/chapters/49700636)  
6 - [Crepes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20837621/chapters/49732133)  
7 - [Mesopotamia](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20837621/chapters/49778288)  
8 - [Ice Cream](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20837621/chapters/49816430)  
9 - [Bookshop](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20837621/chapters/49852316)  
10 - [Body Swap](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20837621/chapters/49898591)  
11 - [Paris](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20837621/chapters/49924022)  
12 - [Crowley's Flat](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20837621/chapters/49958033)  
13 - [Godfathers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20837621/chapters/49980839)  
14 - [Miracle](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20837621/chapters/50017703)  
15 - [Rome](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20837621/chapters/50055095)  
16 - [First Times](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20837621/chapters/50088995)  
17 - [Church](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20837621/chapters/50125055)  
18 - [You Go Too Fast For Me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20837621/chapters/50151440)  
19 - [Regency](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20837621/chapters/50201828)  
20 - [Apocalypse](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20837621/chapters/50225522)  
21 - [Dancing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20837621/chapters/50274521)  
22 - [Golgotha](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20837621/chapters/50295410)  
23 - [Shakespeare](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20837621/chapters/50349269)  
24 -[St. James Park](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20837621/chapters/50372969)  
25 - [Fantasy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20837621/chapters/50409569)  
26 - [Confession](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20837621/chapters/50513672)  
27 - [Wings](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20837621/chapters/50548622)  
28 - [Ring](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20837621/chapters/50576507)  
29 - [Bentley](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20837621/chapters/50585489)  
30 - [Drinks](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20837621/chapters/50603279)  
31 - [Anything You'd Like](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20837621/chapters/50605946)


	2. At the Ritz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley tries to arrange the perfect anniversary date.

"Oh for _Heavenssake!"_

Crowley almost slammed the receiver down, but stopped at the last possible second and let it fall gently back in the cradle. He pillowed his head in his arms and took deep breaths until he calmed down a little. Aziraphale would be very cross if he managed to break another phone.

_They just don't make them like they used to dear,_ he would say. _And I have an aesthetic to maintain._

Crowley had tried, unsuccessfully, to at least get him to upgrade to something touchtone, but the angel had staunchly refused. Taking one last breath, Crowley raised his head and ran both hands through his hair. It just wasn't possible.

Every single restaurant was booked. Even the Ritz. The Ritz! Where just coming in the door was enough for a table to suddenly be available for them. But oh no! By some cosmic fluke, everyone else in the city had also decided they needed to celebrate something today and Crowley was left high and dry without a reservation.

And it wasn't as if he hadn't planed ahead, either. Months he'd been getting ready for this, picking the right champagne, making sure strawberries would be just at the peak of the season, and - most importantly - booking a blessed table! But somehow, at every turn, he'd been denied. Him! And no amount of miracling would fix it, either. He groaned softly. If he wasn't sitting in the bookshop, he would have been sure he'd been sent back to hell where some upstart corporate climber was cutting their fangs on taking the mickey out of him.

There was nothing for it; he would have to tell Aziraphale the bad news. And on their anniversary, too. THE anniversary. 

Crowley would say every day was some anniversary or another, just because he could.

"Oh! what are these for?" Aziraphale would ask delightedly when presented with another bouquet, or box of chocolates, or, on one memorable occasion, a handmade card.

"Well don't you know angel? It's the anniversary of the first time you bought me lunch." 

Or: "The first time I did a miracle for you." 

Or: "The first time we fed the ducks."

The reason was always something small, and they often repeated, and always on a different day, but Aziraphale loved them all the same. He would smother Crowley with thanks and affection and promise to remember next year, which of course was impossible, even for an angel, but that wasn't really the point.

But this was different. This was THE anniversary. When everything had changed and they'd almost lost everything, lost each other, and had ended up on their own side together. This simply HAD to be special, and celebrated with more pomp and circumstance than a flower or a card. Crowley bit back a cry of frustration and pushed himself up from the desk to find Aziraphale.

"Angel? Angel, are you here?" Crowley frowned. The flat upstairs was deserted. He popped over to his: no blonde head bent among his plants and filling their fronds with all kinds of sentimental nonsense. Neither was he at the park, nor Portabello poking through the antique book stalls. He wasn't even feeding the pigeons. Crowley appeared back at the bookshop, starting to worry. It wasn't like Aziraphale to up and leave. He was about to just start driving around when the bell jingled.

Aziraphale appeared in the doorway, all smiles, holding something behind his back. "Crowley? There you are dear! Are you ready?" 

"Angel! Where have you been?"

"I was shopping. Didn't you see my note?" Aziraphale pointed to the little table by the phone where the very edge of a card peeked out from under the phone book. Crowley smacked himself on the forehead.

"I'm sorry, angel. I was - "

"Yes, you've been on the phone all morning. Have you finally finished?"

"I, uh, well - " Crowley sighed, gearing up to break the news.

"Because I was hoping to take you on a little picnic." With a grin, Aziraphale revealed that he was holding a large hamper.

Crowley stared down at it in confusion. "A picnic?"

"Yes, out in the country somewhere. Nice and quiet, just the two of us."

"Angel, I - "

"Wonderful! Come along, dear. I want to watch the sunset." Aziraphale grabbed Crowley's hand, pulling him out the front door before he had a chance to think. He let the Bentley drive most of the way, still trying to wrap his head around what was happening. Aziraphale just smiled contentedly next to him and didn't even complain about the speeding.

They pulled up several hours later in a little country lane somewhere. The hills rolled out below them, dotted with sheep, turning golden in the sunset. Aziraphale took his hand again and went to find just the right spot. They spread out the blanket and Crowley finally satisfied his curiosity as to what was in the hamper.

"All your favorties," Aziraphale said with a smile. 

"And champagne?"

The angel blushed. "Well, it is a special occasion, after all."

"It is?" Crowley played the innocent almost too well, which made Aziraphale laugh.

"Is that why you were on the phone all day? Trying to arrange something?"

"Oh, it was a nightmare!" Crowley moaned, flopping down on the blanket. "All my reservations disappeared. I couldn't even get the Ritz! Must be the moon or something."

Aziraphale hummed in amused agreement as he poured the champagne, handing one glass to Crowley. "Yes, it certainly must be a special day all right."

Crowley narrowed his eyes, took of his glasses, sat up, and narrowed them again. "Did you have something to do with this?" Aziraphale only took a sip of champagne. Crowley scooted around to look him in the face. "Angel, did you let me sit on the phone all day thinking I'd ruined our anniversary just so we could have a picnic?"

Aziraphale had the grace to look a little guilty. "Are you upset?"

Crowley nodded, but said "No." He smiled. "No angel, of course not. But you could have just said."

"I know, but you always like going out."

"Angel, I like going out because _you_ like going out!"

They both stared at each other for a moment, then collapsed with laughter.

"We really are a pair, aren't we?"

"We have another 6,000 years to figure it out," Crowley said.

"Happy anniversary, dearest." Aziraphale held up his glass, tapping it reverently against Crowley's. "I know it's not the Ritz but - "

Crowley cut him off with a soft kiss. "No, Aziraphale. It's better."


	3. Eden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Excerpt from what will hopefully become a longer work.  
Edit: Now officially an expanded standalone The Atlas of Eden!
> 
> Aziraphale and Crowley go looking for Eden.

"You know, I don't even remember where the damn thing was anymore," Crowley said, apropos of nothing, continuing a conversation they had started about thirty years ago. He was sprawled on the couch in the back of the shop, having popped by unannounced with a bottle or two like he had been wont to do Before; except now it was After and while all the motions were the same, something about the dance they had been doing had changed. 

"What's that, old boy?" Aziraphale asked patiently, not looking up from the book he was reading at the desk.

"The tree." Crowley waved a hand, the wine in the glass he held sloshing dangerously close to the rim but never quite seeming to spill. "You know, the tree with the - " he snapped his fingers a few times - "the things."

Aziraphale looked at him over the rims of his glasses. "The apples?"

"That's them!" Crowley grinned, pleased to have that sorted out. He settled more completely along the length of the couch. "I wonder what's happened to it."

"Well, I gather there was a bit of a to-do with shifting plates, and continents and things, so I imagine it's all rather gone to the four winds by now." Aziraphale had taken off his glasses, to see better while he explained. Now, he tapped them thoughtfully on his knee. "Although," he said slowly, taking a quick glance at Crowley, "it's possible that we could ... look for it."

Crowley gave a bark of laughter. "Remember where it was, do you?"

Aziraphale wiggled in indignation. "Of course I do!" He paused. "I remember the gate pretty well, anyway."

"Aha! You don't have any clue!"

"And I'm sure I have an atlas or two lying around here someplace," Aziraphale continued, as if he hadn't heard. He got up, beginning to get excited about the idea. "Between the two of us, we should be able to piece it together. What do you think?"

He smiled expectantly down at Crowley, whose head lolled against the arm of the couch. Crowley gave him a lopsided grin from upside down.

"I think you haven't got the faintest idea where it is and just want an excuse to get me to help you clean the shop."

Aziraphale huffed. "I am appalled you would suggest such a thing. I remember exactly where it was."

Crowley pursed his lips thoughtfully. He chose not to mention that Aziraphale had not denied wanting him to stay. He finally gave a sigh and set his glass aside. "All right, angel, if it means that much to you."

"You're the one who brought it up!" Aziraphale turned away, throwing his hands up in exasperation.

Crowley hid a smile as he sat up and refilled his glass. He remembered Aziraphale developing that little gesture back when cuff frills were popular because he liked the effect. Or had he popularized the frills because of the gesture? Crowley couldn't remember, and anyway, it wasn't really important. Maybe he could bring cuffs back in fashion, he mused. There was a new decade coming up and everyone always fell for the temptation of a hot new trend.

"I say, old chap, have you been listening?" Aziraphale broke into his thoughts. "Really, if you're not actually keen, I do wish you'd tell me before I go making all these lists."

"No, no I am. Really!"

Aziraphale looked unsure until Crowley sobered himself up and even took off his glasses. "All right then. You can help me look for these." He held a sheet of paper under Crowley's nose.

Crowley glanced over it and rolled his eyes. "These will take ages to find! No doubt they're all buried somewhere inaccessible. Tell you what -" he ripped the page neatly in half crosswise - "let's make it interesting."

Aziraphale's mouth quirked a bit at the corners. "How interesting?"

"Last one finished buys dinner."

Aziraphale considered for a moment. "All right, but no miracles."

"Done." Crowley held out half the paper, only to snatch it back just as Aziraphale reached for it. He grinned, tongue just gracing the corner of his smile. "Didn't anyone ever tell you not to make deals with demons?"

"I'll take my chances," Aziraphale said. He only blushed a little as he plucked his half of the paper from Crowley's fingers. "Oh, by the way," he suggested casually, "you may want to try that shelf over there for a start." He pointed to a shelf leaning precariously into its neighbor, no doubt held up only by a hope and a prayer.

Crowley snorted. "Cheat."

"Spoilsport."


	4. Crossover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crossover featuring Good Omens and The Adventurer: The Curse of the Midas Box (2014).
> 
> Will Charity and Anthony J. Crowley team up to discover the location of the fabled Midas Box before the devious Luger (Sam Neil) gets his hands on it.

"When you said 'Meet me at the museum,' " Crowley said tightly, "I did not think you meant 'Catch me when I jump out the bloody window!' "

"Well, I had to get down, didn't I?" Will huffed from under Crowley's arm. "And I couldn't exactly go out the front. I was followed!"

"Yes, you were, because you are absolutely hopeless. And they will catch us up in a minute if you don't hurry along!" Crowley got his arm more securely under Will's weight as he limped along the alley behind the museum. "Trust you to get stabbed, as well," he muttered.

"Good thing you're here then, is it not?" Will attempted a smile, but it came out as a grimace.

"Never should have answered that summoning!"

"It wasn't my fault," Will reminded him. This was an old argument by now, and one they rehashed every time Will got himself in trouble. Which was often.

"Just shut up and walk, Charity."

They reached the next street. It was busy with midday traffic, but Crowley managed to flag down a cab. He bundled Will inside, tossed the driver an extra coin to not ask any questions, and they headed back to the safe house.

Once inside, with Will suitably propped up on the sofa, Crowley could finally assess the damage done to his companion. 

"You realize that if this had gone any deeper, we would be filling out a lot of paperwork." He ignored Will's protestations as he cleaned the three-edged cut. "I hope you at least got the chance to explain."

Will grimaced apologetically. "I did try. I gave Catherine the amulets, she'll know what that means."

"Let's hope so, for her sake. Hold still." Crowley pressed two cool fingers to the cut. Will bit down on a knuckle as the wound closed. "What about the boys?" Crowley asked as he affixed a bandage.

Will swung his legs to the floor, winced, and stood shakily. "They have a room at the Grand. They should be fine until tomorrow. We'll go round in the morning."

"In that case, you should go to bed and rest. I've done what I can, but that blade is nasty stuff. And I will have my glasses back, if you don't mind."

Will rolled his eyes. "Fine. They didn't suit me anyway." He dug them out of his coat pocket and tossed them to the demon. He then proceeded over to his desk with every intention of getting prepared for the next morning.

"Didn't you hear me, Charity? Bed. Now."

"Can't rest, dear boy. I have to brush up on my sleight of hand."

Crowley groaned. "Again? Didn't you use that angle last time?"

Will grinned, palming a coin and producing it again from behind Crowley's ear. "It's the perfect cover. Luger's just mad for stage magic. It will give me a chance to get close to him."

Crowley sighed heavily. "We're going to have to go to that godforsaken island, aren't we?"

"Afraid so." Will finally sat down next to him again, slightly out of breath, running an hand through his damp curls. "It has to be there, Crowley. And we have to get to it first. You remember what Midas was like."

"Yes, I do," Crowley said grimly. He glanced at Will over his glasses. "Do you really have to be a magician?"

Will winked. "Just wait 'til you see the hat!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: I'm writing this one, too. [ A Demon with the Midas Touch](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21787531)
> 
> Will Charity is an Indiana Jones type who tries to protect dangerous artifacts from falling into the wrong hands. Several years ago, he accidentally summoned a demon by reading the inscription (rookie move) and now he and one Anthony J. Crowley are forced into a kind of buddy cop scenario which picks up with the events of the film.
> 
> I have written something that will appeal to about three people besides me, and I'm ok with that. Am I now going to struggle to finish the rest of the prompts because I just want to write more of this? Maybe...
> 
> But really, The Adventurer is a fun, cheesy action movie and you should watch it. Lena Headey is in it. SAM NEIL is in it. Aneurin Barnard, star of The Goldfinch, is in it. It'll be fun, I promise. I'm [ only a little biased. ](https://www.instagram.com/p/B11-gYDA6KH/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link)


	5. Reverse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale takes a listen to some of Crowley's record collection, and what he finds is certainly not bebop.

The Them were sitting on the floor of the bookshop surrounded by careful stacks of books and mugs of cocoa. Aziraphale was sitting at his desk, going through some paperwork that was more a convenient excuse to keep an eye on them. Not that he didn't trust the children, but they were children, after all, and one never really could forget that one of them had recently decided not to end the world.

"Do you think it's true that if you play a record backward, there's a hidden message on it?" Brian held up an example from the stack he'd been browsing through.

Pepper nodded. "My gran never let my mum listen to any rock because she said the satanists would infect her impressionable mind."

"There aren't really messages," Wensleydale piped up, adjusting his glasses. "The phenomenon is attributed to the human brain needing stimulus. So it fills in the blanks of white noise with familiar sounds that appear to be words."

Adam took the record from Brian and scanned the lyrics printed on the back. "Let's find out," he said.

If Crowley had been in the shop at the moment, he would have 1) told them all to get their grubby hands off his collection and 2) explained that both Pepper and Wensleydale were each partially correct.

There are sometimes messages, and they got interpreted as satanic because they were, in effect, satan adjacent. As a memo system, it was not perhaps the most efficient, but it was much less hassle than bolts of lightening or scrying through entrails. It was all boring office stuff, how many temptations, how many converted sinners, keeping tabs on field workers, that sort of thing. Crowley had enjoyed the espionage effect, but the other demons never had much taste in music. Hence the tendency to gravitate toward rock and heavy metal, and sometimes freeform jazz, which are all comprised of loud atonal sounds anyway. So, hiding a message was easy. The trouble was, once it was there, it stuck.

So, if some demon got lazy and didn't dispose of the record and therefore the message, and a stray human got their hands on it, and found something that sounded - to poorly attuned human ears - like a demonic summons to sinfulness, well, there wasn't really much anyone could do about that. Therefore the rumors, therefore the mass panic of parents, but also therefore a convenient cover for the demons.

What really would have bothered Crowley about all this at the present moment, however, was the fact that while there were some messages hidden in his collection, they were a bit more personal than the average.

"Mr. Fell, do you have a record player?" Adam poked his head through the doorway to the back of the shop.

Aziraphale looked up with a smile. "Why yes, as a matter of fact. A lovely Victrola, with the original horn, I got back in nineteen -"

"Um, that's great," Adam interrupted, "But I was thinking something more - electrical?"

"Oh." Aziraphale's face fell. "Yes, it's over there. But be careful! You know how Mr. Crowley is about his collection."

As Adam rejoined his friends, Aziraphale casually made his way over to said Victrola, to give it a little dusting and not to make sure They weren't doing any serious damage to the record collection. He had never actually listened to any of them, though Crowley had given him permission and encouraged him to expand his musical horizons. The records were special to Crowley, in much the same way Aziraphale's books were to him, and he had no desire to pry. It could not, however, be helped when the demon's voice suddenly filled the shop under the sound of crackling static.

_ Note to self: buy Wellingtons, keep in boot so that next time someone needs rescuing from a church because of course he will, you won't burn your feet. Will rubber melt? Don't really want to test it,_ Crowley's voice grumbled. _ Anyway, boots. Better to have than to not, I s'pose. _

"Can you hear anything?" Pepper asked.

"Nah. Let's try another one."

_ All right, 'Check this, cats!' No, too casual. 'Dearly detested,' ah... that's not right. _ There were sounds of pacing and distant mutters. Aziraphale bit back a giggle. _ Okay, just stick with 'Associates,' that's nice and neutral. Okay, let's see, big highway, lots of pollution, can't be bad, then, boom! Hit 'em with the sigil! Wahoo. _

"I still can't hear anything," Adam said.

"We should have brought Dog. Maybe it's too high for us."

"Wouldn't be much point in hidden messages just for dogs, though, would there?"

They tried a few more, one of which featured Crowley singing along endearingly off-key to something about hearts and the lunar cycle and falling apart once upon a time. He was torn between wanting to continue to listen and knowing that he absolutely _ should not _ be listening to any of this.

"Mr. Fell? Are you all right?"

"Ah, yes, but perhaps it's time to clear this up? I should hate for Mr. Crowley to come back and find -"

"Find what, angel?"

Everyone turned to Crowley who had come in through the back. He was smiling around at them expectantly, though Aziraphale was the only one to really look guilty.

"We're doing an experiment!" Wensleydale explained when no one else said anything. "To see if there were any hidden messages on your records."

Crowley's eyebrows shot up. He glanced sharply at Aziraphale, who studiously looked anywhere but at him.

"It didn't work, though," Brian said.

"Oh, that's a shame." Crowley kept staring at Aziraphale.

"Yes, it was quite the interesting day but I think it's time for you to be heading home," Aziraphale said quickly.

"Should we help clean up?"

"No, dear, that's all right. Cheerrio, then."

He began to shepard the children out the door, feeling Crowley's stare on his back the whole time. He was almost afraid to turn from the door once it had shut.

"They were playing my records."

"Yes," Aziraphale said to the door.

"Backwards."

"Yes."

"But it didn't work."

Aziraphale finally turned, a little smile threatening the corners of his mouth. "I wouldn't say that. The children couldn't hear anything, but I did." Aziraphale held out his hands placatingly. "I didn't mean to, please don't be upset."

Crowley stared at him for a moment. Then, slowly, he began to laugh. "Oh, angel, I'm not upset." He motioned Aziraphale into a hug. "I told you that you could listen to whatever you wanted. Although, I didn't think it would be in reverse. That's very inventive."

Aziraphale chuckled into Crowley's chest. "It wasn't my idea. I know how much they mean to you. But, you know how curious children are."

Crowley nodded against blonde curls. "Learn anything interesting?"

"I learned that you've got a terrible ear for pitch." Aziraphale leaned back to look at him. "But what you lack in musicality, you make up for in enthusiasm." Crowley smiled sheepishly. "I also learned," Aziraphale continued quietly, "that you have been a nicer person for longer than I realized."

Aziraphale took Crowley's hands in his own. "I know that I have said this many time already, but I apologize for thinking for so long that we were ever so different."

"I know, angel." Crowley squeezed his fingers affectionately. "Two sides of the same coin, we are. You don't have to keep apologizing. Make it up to me with dinner instead."

Aziraphale grinned. "All right. Wherever you want to go, my treat."

Crowley decided on the pub down the street. And not because it was open mic night. That was just a coincidence.


	6. Alpha Centauri

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley take a trip to France, for crepes of course, but also to stargaze at the Pic du Midi Observatory.

With the way things fell out, it was good that neither of them actually went off to Alpha Centauri. But afterwards, Aziraphaple sometimes thought it may have been nice to see. So, he decided to do something about it. The next time they were in France, he persuaded Crowley to climb a mountain with him.

"Don't like heights, angel," Crowley muttered, pressed stiffly to his side as they rode up in the cable car.

"We are perfectly safe."

"That's not the point!" Crowley hissed. "We could be discorporated at any moment! Plummeting to our doom on the sharp rocks! Plus, I'm cold." He scrunched more deeply into the layers of his coat, scarf, and second coat.

"You can fly, dearest. Besides, if it came to it, I would catch you before anything happened."

"I know. Doesn't mean I have to like it. What are we even doing up here anyway? I thought you wanted crepes."

Aziraphaple shushed him. He squeezed his hand softly. "It's a surprise."

Crowley gave him a brief glance. "That sounds suspicious, coming from you. You're not exactly a creature of artifice."

"Not with you, maybe. Now, just sit still. We'll be there soon."

Crowley grumbled, but settled more snugly against the angel. He kept his eyes firmly shut against the steady rush of cliff face going past. So, Aziraphale enjoyed the subtle shift from evening to night alone, comfortable with Crowley's weight against his shoulder. The higher they climbed, the more the light sky was replaced with deep blue. It reminded him of the ocean, the great bowl of water turned upside down overhead.

Shortly, the carriage pulled up to the top of the mountain. Crowley practically ran out ahead of everyone else, pressing himself firmly against the nearest wall.

"Okay, we're here. That was fun angel, can we go back now?"

"Crowley." Aziraphale gently loosened the demon's grip on the concrete. "Trust me. I won't let anything happen to you."

Crowley sighed, and nodded minutely. Aziraphale slotted their arms together and led them up the breezeway path.

"That's where we're going." He pointed to a low, wide building with several tall aerials and white domes standing from the roof. And there wasn't much else between that and the sky. It made Crowley dizzy. He closed his eyes again. 

"It's just across the patio there. I'm right here beside you," Aziraphale said gently.

The air was thin all the way up here, and very cold. Crowley bit the inside of his cheek, as they stood together on the wide stone patio between station and large building, wondering why Aziraphale would take him to someplace that he surely knew would make him so uncomfortable. He started a bit when Aziraphale placed a warm hand on his cheek. Slowly, the angel tipped his head back.

"Open your eyes, dear," he whispered.

Crowley swallowed. He took a deep breath and did it before he could think too much. And he was glad.

Above him, painted against the dark velvet sky, were the stars. More than he could ever glimpse in London, more even than out in the countryside. Bright ones, tiny ones, planets, and constellations he knew better than his own corporation. They started to swim a little before he looked back down at Aziraphale, who was beaming like the sun.

"Do you like it?"

Crowley didn't trust himself to speak so he only nodded. 

"Oh, good. I was a little worried for a moment there. Come inside before you get a chill." He led Crowley inside the observatory and hadn't got much inside the door before he was being scooped up into a tremendous hug.

"It's wonderful, angel," Crowley said into his shoulder. If he used the hug as an excuse to dry his eyes, Aziraphale wasn't going to tell anyone. "But, you do know there are places like this a bit nearer home."

"There are, but the skies are so much clearer here. And since we were going to get crepes anyway..." Aziraphale brushed Crowley's cheek again. "I wanted it to be as close as possible to what you remember."

Crowley leaned into the touch gratefully. "Thank you, angel."

Aziraphale smiled. "Now, show me this Alpha Centauri you kept going on about. Take as long as you like; we have all the time in the world."


	7. Crepes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of Day 6. After Pic du Midi, they head back to the ground for a snack.

After having drunk their fill of stars, Crowley declared it time for crepes. Getting down from the mountain was much easier - at Crowley's insistence - for it took only a snap to deposit them both on a tiny lane in a tiny French village in the valley below.

Crowley smiled and offered no explanation to Aziraphale as he walked up to the door of the last house and knocked. The woman who answered seemed to know him well enough because she laughed and kissed his cheeks with warm familiarity. She spotted Aziraphale over his shoulder and raised a questioning eyebrow. When Crowley nodded with a sheepish smile, she smiled knowingly and beckoned them both inside.

Aziraphale's French had not improved in the intervening centuries so Crowley was left to carry the conversation. He and the woman, whose name was Vivienne, caught up in rapid French while Aziraphale hovered in the background, examining the small sitting room. The house was simply furnished, the white plaster walls cool in the mountain morning, but it had clearly been lived in, and lived in well, a long time. And if the large accumulation of books, photographs, and gardening equipment was anything to go by, this place had been home to generations of orchid growers. Aziraphale suddenly understood why Crowley and Vivienne were such good friends.

Years ago, when he had been struggling through just keeping the Dowling's lawn mowed, the gardens had still been full of wonderful flowers. These had then somehow found their way inside the house, perfectly arranged and perpetually fresh. Aziraphale had never quite figured out when Crowley had found the time in between caring for Warlock, but those flowers had always been a cheery sight. And Mrs. Dowling had always had orchids in her bedroom. Now, he knew where they had come from.

A sound from behind him made Aziraphale turn around. Standing the doorway of the kitchen was a tiny old woman, arms crossed, spoon in hand, staring at him like she was appraising an antique. He waved, but she was unaffected. Vivienne spotted his predicament and, through Crowley, introduced her grandmother. She was known simply as Mammon.

Crowley explained that Mammon's crepes were the best anywhere. Mammon came shuffling up to Aziraphale and gave him a hard look in the face. Apparently satisfied there, she took his hands, turning them over and examining closely. She gave Crowley a single nod, held the spoon out to Aziraphale, and made her way back to the kitchen. Even Aziraphale could tell that meant: If you want to eat, you will cook.

Vivienne made coffee while Crowley sat at the table to watch. Not one to be daunted, Aziraphale rolled up his sleeves and set to. He and Mammon didn't need words; a sharp poke was enough to tell him when he'd done something wrong. She was a strict but patient teacher, guiding Aziraphale's hands in mixing the batter, browning the butter, tilting the pan just so. His first few attempts were lumpy and a bit burnt, but she just poked him and he tried again. Crowley watched, soft smile on his face, as Aziraphale worked, his tongue stuck out in concentration. When he finally got one right, Aziraphale's delighted laugh was so infectious, even Mammon smiled. Both she and Vivienne agreed that Crowley had made a good choice. (Aziraphale, too busy enjoying the fruits of his labor, did not notice Crowley's furious blush at this mark of approval.)

Later, as they waved goodbye, Aziraphale would confess that Crowley had been right. The crepes had indeed been the best he'd ever eaten, even better than 1793. And by the end of the week, two packages arrived at the cottage in the Downs: a new orchid and a well-seasoned crepe pan.


	8. Mesopotamia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A trip to the Penn Museum to visit an old friend.

"Look mom! There she is!"

A young girl pressed close to the glass-fronted case. Her eyes shone as she took in the alabaster disc. Round and pale as the moon, the figure in the center stood out in sharp relief. She held her head high, as befitted her station as high priestess.

"Enheduanna was the priestess of Nanna, the moon god, and she wrote all kinds of poems about him and her job," the girl explained excitedly to her mother. "And historians know she was important because she wrote down her name. She was the first person to do that."

"She's just like you, then. You write very nice poems for class."

"Yeah, 'cept I'm not going to get married to the moon."

"Oh, that's good," the mother smiled. "I'd miss you if you went all the way up there."

The girl laughed. "Mom!"

The two moved off through the exhibit. Behind them, a rather oddly dressed man slowly approached the case, looking close to tears.

"Did you know her?" his friend asked quietly.

Aziraphale nodded slowly. His hand hovered just above the glass. "She was incredibly devoted to her position. And she was a very keen poet."

_"Her wrath is ... a devastating flood which no one can withstand. A great watercourse ... she abases those whom she despises. The mistress, an eagle that lets no one escape."_ [ Hymn to Inanna, lines 29-38 ](http://etcsl.orinst.ox.ac.uk/cgi-bin/etcsl.cgi?text=t.4.07.3#)

He smiled sadly. "She was onto something there, wasn't she? I wish I'd kept some of her tablets."

"They wouldn't have lasted." Crowley rubbed his shoulder gently. 

"I know. Still." He looked at the exhibit a moment longer. Crowley snaked his arms around his waist from behind, resting his chin on the angel's shoulder.

_"The compiler of these tablets was Enheduanna. My king, something has been created that no one has created before."_ [ The Temple Hymns, lines 543-544 ](http://etcsl.orinst.ox.ac.uk/cgi-bin/etcsl.cgi?text=t.4.80.1&display=Crit&charenc=gcirc&lineid=t4801.p107#t4801.p107)

"You're not the only one who remembers her." He pressed a little kiss behind Aziraphale's ear.

"Thank you, dear."

"Humanity's pretty stubborn when it comes down to it," Crowley said as they continued on after the group. "Something always stays behind." 

"I wonder what they'll find next," Aziraphale mused, linking their arms together.

"I suppose we'll just have to wait around and find out." Crowley gave him a grin. "What do you say to some lunch?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update needs a little bit of context.
> 
> When I started thinking about this prompt, I wanted to do something slightly more hopeful than The Flood. So, I did some thinking about ancient Mesopotamia, which is a cool period in history! Maybe they could visit a museum and reminisce (which is a good and common trope that I love!) THEN I thought about the possibility of one of them being IN the thing they are seeing in the collection (also good) and I came across _Forbidden Fruit: A History of Women and Books in Art_ by Christiane Inmann. [ [Link] ](https://www.worldcat.org/title/forbidden-fruit-a-history-of-women-and-books-in-art/oclc/604446300?referer=di&ht=edition) It details the history of depictions of literate women in art and it's really fascinating. 
> 
> And right on the first page was just the kind of thing I was looking for. Enheduanna, the Akkadian princess and high priestess of the goddess Inanna and the moon god Nanna, who is the first named author in history. She lived in Ur (a fascinating city!) and is credited with being the first person to assign their name to written material. She wrote poetry and hymns for the temples and chronicled her expulsion and eventual reinstatement as priestess at the hands of her brother. Her writings were saved, handed down and preserved by worshipers, and one carved image of her remains today. [ [Link] ](https://www.penn.museum/collections/object/293415) It is housed in the Penn Museum (Universtiy of Pennsylvania) and depicts Enheduanna and three other priests participating in a ceremony. The back of the carving is inscribed with her name and title. And her poems have been translated! [ [Link] ](http://etcsl.orinst.ox.ac.uk/cgi-bin/etcsl.cgi?searchword=l=en-he2-du7-an-na%20t=PN&charenc=gcirc) We can read them all these centuries later and know who wrote them! How cool is that?
> 
> Fun fact that I discovered while doing this research (isn't it always the way - you need to look up one random fact and end up going down a rabbit hole.) In 2012, while the disc was in storage, Neil Gaiman was given a tour of the museum and was shown this exact artifact. [ [Link] ](https://www.penn.museum/blog/museum/ur-digitization-project-item-of-the-month-june-2012/) So, here's the author of _Good Omens_ looking at the depiction of the first recorded author who may or may not have been known personally by one of his characters. How about that for a framing device.


	9. Ice Cream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A nice summer day at the pier will be fun, they said. Have some ice cream, they said. They should have stayed at the park.

Brighton Pier was, in retrospect, not the best place for an over anxious demon and a fastidious angel to spend an afternoon. Overall, there were too many people, too much noise, quite enough sin already, and too many birds.

Crowley had initially thought it would make a nice change from the park and the ducks, and Aziraphale had, of course, been enticed by the idea that someone would actually appreciate his sleight of hand skills. In theory, they may have been right. In practice, it was rather disastrous.

The first mistake was deciding to get an ice cream first thing. Perhaps if they had waited, they may actually have been able to see some of the pier. Crowley got himself two 99's (because gluttony was the obvious indulgence) and a cherry ice lolly for Aziraphale. He turned to find him attempting to pay the unimpressed vendor by pulling the pound coin from the man's ear. Being distracted by this, Crowley failed to notice the seagull watching him from the railing. Before he could say anything, the gull took the opportunity to attack, diving straight for the soft serve. In one swoop, the bird was on the cone, the cone was still in Crowley's hand, and Crowley was so startled he stepped backward right onto Aziraphale's foot.

This caused the angel to cry out, drop the coin he had been palming, and several others besides, right into the vat of cherries on the cart. Before he could snap his fingers to retrieve them, a second seagull joined the commotion and went for the cone in Crowley's other hand, which until that point he had been using in an attempt to drive off the first bird. Now, both hands were under attack from very sharp beaks and lots of wings so he did the most logical thing he could think of in the moment and flung both cones away.

Unfortunately, they landed at the feet of a small child also enjoying an ice cream. This caused all hell to break loose.

The child, feet now splattered with Crowley's ice cream, started to scream as the birds dove for his mint chip. The mother quickly scooped him up and headed as quickly as she could for the nearest storefront. Abandoning the ice cream, the two birds sent up a rallying cry that swelled up in answer along the pier. A veritable flock of seagulls rose up from the water and descended upon the hapless tourists. The gulls swarmed anyone holding food. Chips, crisps, popcorn, hot dogs, it was all fair game. Soon, people down the length of the pier were screaming and flapping arms and bags, trying to free themselves from the onslaught.

Crowley, for his part, at least attempted to do something to make up for throwing ice cream at a child. He strode out into a clear patch and whistled sharply. Several beady orange eyes turned in his direction and some of his conviction faltered. There was no remorse in those eyes, he told Aziraphale later. Only hunger.

Still, he was a demon and they were just birds so he stood his ground. But seagulls are not like other birds, especially those raised on Brighton Pier. Quicker than Crowley could move a finger, they were speeding towards him. Aziraphale cried for him to watch out, but it was too late and Crowley was swallowed by a cloud of screaming gulls. Arms flailing, he tripped sideways into the ice cream cart, sending it over with a clatter and a spray of sprinkles, and would have gone over the railing into the sea if Aziraphale had not grabbed him.

In the middle of all the beating wings and clacking beaks, Aziraphale and Crowley agreed it would be best to go home and in the blink of an eye they were back in the blessedly bird free bookshop. Shakily brushing feathers from their clothes, they vowed to stick to the park from now on. Aziraphale quietly mailed a suitably apologetic sum to the poor ice cream vendor and tracked down the traumatized child and relieved him of his new fear of birds. As for Crowley, he now held the ducks in a higher regard and for several weeks he avoided ice cream all together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have wanted to write this piece since I came across [ this sketch ](https://lordazazel23.tumblr.com/post/186741883077/could-you-draw-aziraphale-and-crowley-going-on-a) by the wonderfully talented @lordazazel23. Bring up 'seagull steals ice cream' in your fave search engine to get the full cinematic experience.


	10. Bookshop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another excerpt from something longer: The (almost)Ineffable Funny Face AU that no one asked for except me. 
> 
> Crowley, a photographer for a fashion magazine, finds his reluctant muse in an unexpected place, a run-down Soho bookshop.
> 
> Edit: The AU is now complete! [ Read here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24021631)

Quality Magazine had been the standard of fashion for over two hundred years. Every trend that caught on did so because Quality published it first. When that trend withered into posterity, it was because Quality deemed it dead. It was a very successful magazine.

And that success was due in large part to the tireless efforts of one Anthony J. Crowley, head photographer.

He had been working for the magazine nearly all his life, the most recent in a long line of photographers in his family. Every issue contained imagery carefully crafted by one Anthony J. Crowley or another. The current A.J.C. applied himself to his work almost at the exclusion of everything else. He could tell at a glance how to make the light and the model and the clothes do exactly what he wanted, and Crowley always got the shot he wanted.

He was once asked by an interviewer why he used (read: wasted) his talents on a lowly fashion magazine. His response to the interviewer had been ‘Piss off,’ but his real answer was simply that he liked it. From the start, the process had fascinated him and he had taken to it like a duck to water. He enjoyed the process of designing a shoot around a collection, selecting the right lenses and backdrops, coaxing the picture out of the model like a sculpture out of marble. Plus, he simply loved the clothes.

Crowley had always dressed well, always one step ahead of every trend. His style had changed little down the years but he had honed it to a fine point. Almost always black, even in summer, with occasional touches of sparkle or color, he preferred soft silks and supple leather tailored close to accentuate his lithe frame and make his legs look less ungainly. His sunglasses had become a trademark along with his perpetual catwalk swagger. Anyone who saw him instantly knew who he was, except when he did not want to be seen. For, as much as he wore the big labels, he also knew what the people of the city - the everyday readers - were wearing and how they were wearing it. 

He was dressed to blend now, on a mild April Sunday, taking one of his habitual strolls through the park. He had been walking around the city for hours, trying to come up with a new idea for the upcoming issue. According to the sales office, Quality was selling as well as ever, but he knew that something was changing. The era of the fashion magazine as lifestyle bible was coming to a close. He knew it, the chief editor knew it, and if they were going out, Crowley was determined that they would go out with a bang. 

Across the road, a church bell tolled. Afternoon service was just letting out so Crowley wandered over. Say what you will about the tenets of modern worship but the aesthetics were always ripe for reinvention. Crowley watched the crowd descend the steps. Everyone sported the latest styles; not a hatpin or pocket square out of place. He started to turn toward home when a flash of something bright caught his eye.

He squinted, and caught it again. A splash of color on a lapel. He rushed across the road, dodging cars. There! What was it? A rose? No, too early for roses. A carnation! A single soft pink carnation in a buttonhole, bright against the cream jacket. He pushed through the crowd after a shock of white blond hair, when a group of kids rushed past with a very energetic dog. By the time they had cleared away, the carnation was gone. Crowley swiveled on the sidewalk in despair then spotted the blond man going around the far corner. He followed at a moderate distance. The man led him through the older parts of the city, past little shops and restaurants full of locals instead of tourists, eventually ending at a little shop on a corner.

The man went inside, but Crowley remained on the road. The small, inconspicuous building looked like it had been new when the city had been built. The modern buildings had encroached upon it, but by some miracle the weathered white stone had refused to give way, not unlike a stubborn grandmother on a park bench. A. Z. Fell and Co, Booksellers, was printed in faded gold lettering on the window. Crowley peered inside curiously and was surprised to see actual books, the old kind, and not pulpy paperbacks. The whole place was a relic, and just the kind of place that would be perfect for a photo shoot. Crowley smiled happily as he made his way back downtown, already getting ideas.

The next day, he was beginning to rethink his plan.

"Where is this place?" moaned his assistant from the passenger seat.

"It's around here somewhere," he muttered gripping the wheel tight as he maneuvered his Bentley, crammed with lights, equipment boxes, garment bags, and the disgruntled model in the back, down a narrow alley. He had driven in circles for an hour, trying to find the bookshop again. Crowley was starting to think he had dreamed the whole place when he recognized a bakery. He cranked the wheel hard and they skidded to a halt in front of the shop.

"It's hideous," said his assistant as she got out.

"It’s perfectly intellectual, Ann. Come on, let's get this stuff inside."

"Are you sure you got permission to shoot here? It doesn't even look open." She peered in through the front window.

Crowley shot her an offended look. "Do I look like the kind of person who would just barge into a place and set up a shoot without asking?"

"Yes. So I'll leave the smooth talking to you," she said and followed Crowley inside.

"Rather dark, isn't it?" noted the model.

"That's what the lights are for, darling," Crowley said patiently. "Let's set up over there by those shelves. Grey suit first, I think."

While Ann set up the lights, Crowley took a look around. It was very dim inside. He doubted the place was even wired for electricity. There was a fine patina of dust on everything, like they were the first customers in years. He had a fleeting hope that the place had been abandoned, but that hope was dashed by a panicked shout from the back of the shop.

"What do you think you're doing!"

Crowley turned, and there he was, framed in a curtained doorway through which Crowley could just see what looked like a Victorian living room out of a museum. The same blond hair, same coat with a new carnation, but now a distinct look of annoyance creased the kindly face from yesterday. He glanced over the other man's outfit, none of which looked like it was from the current century. Well worn brogues, high-waisted trousers, a velvet waistcoat complete with watch fob. And to top it all, a tartan bow tie. The whole ensemble was ridiculous, but somehow fitting considering the state of the bookshop.

"Ah, hello. Mr. Fell, I take it?" He held out a hand, which was refused.

"I demand you leave this shop at once, sir!"

"We were just hoping to take a few pictures in your charming establishment," Crowley said.

"Photographs? I don't - oh, no please don't touch those!" Ann had started rearranging the books, which was apparently not done.

"Yes, for Quality Magazine." Crowley stepped neatly between Fell and his assistant, trying to distract him. "I take it you aren't familiar." 

"I beg your pardon?" the man said.

"Quality. The fashion magazine."

"Fashion!" Fell staggered back, clutching his heart. this was apparently worse than whatever he had initially assumed. "Oh no, I really must insist that you leave. This is a place for intellectualism and study and I will not have its reputation sullied by such frivolity."

He hurried over to Ann, taking the books from her and replacing them on the shelves. Crowley took him gently by the shoulders, steering him back to the rear of the shop.

"I assure you, we will be the epitome of professionalism. Plus, think of the customers you'll get once people see your shop featured in our pages."  
"But I don't want customers!" Fell whined. He saw the confusion on Crowley’s face and sighed. "What I mean to say is, I already have enough customers, thank you." He moved to one of the overcrowded tables and put down the stack of books. "I'm sure your readers are all very nice," he continued, "but the patrons here move in a different circle, with different sensibilities."

"I don't doubt that," Crowley chuckled. "Our readers are about as likely to frequent a place like this and read about" - he picked up one of the books, tilting his head to read the spine - "empathicalism. What is that?"

"The principles of empathical thinking. You know, doing unto others, being a good person?"

Crowley dropped the book like a hot potato. Fell gave him a smug look. "I take it you aren't familiar."


	11. Body Swap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the switch, Aziraphale and Crowley discover that some things about their corporations are not quite the way they left them.

It turned out that getting used to life after the world didn't end was quite easy. The only really hard bit, for Aziraphale anyway, was setting his bookshop to rights again. Adam may have restored it down to the last little cherub statuette, but the organization was turned on its head. It took Aziraphale nearly six months to get it back to the way he liked it.

The only other initially inconvenient bit was the tattoos.

Aziraphale had discovered his shortly after he and Crowley returned to themselves after the trials. All that unpleasantness had left a distinct tang of sulfur everywhere and Aziraphale would not have his coat runied so he went straight off to clean before meeting Crowley for dinner. And that was when he relaized that the body he had returned to was not as he had left it. Firstly, his hair was much more rakishly disheveled than usual but he put that down to Crowley mussing it. Secondly, there was now a large tattoo across his back.

Upon closer inspection, it was less a tattoo and more a pattern of little black scales that skittered across his shoulders and down his back, quite closely resembling the furl of his wings. Aziraphale had called Crowley, furious, and demanding that his corportion be returned to factory settings. The wrench was, when Crowley showed up, it was to reveal a similar pattern on his own back. Crowley's however, was flecks of silver gilding that he was equally upset about. He claimed it would ruin the aesthetic of some of his more revealing tops. 

Niether had any success in removing the marks. The only explaination seemed to be the swap. Something about an angel inhabiting a demonic corporation had caused a reaction of sorts and vice versa. Why it had only happened after they returned to their respective boides was a mystery, but also a great consolation. If they hadn't been marked as more than emenies before the trials, they certainly were now. Though, as Crowley admitted at dinner, there was something fitting about the development, proof that they weren't so different after all. And Crowley had been trying to tempt Aziraphale into a tattoo for centuries, so it wasn't all bad.

And besides, there were plays to see, concerts to go to, picnics to plan, and three new sushi places to try. They were too busy living to care overmuch about something as small as a tattoo.


	12. Paris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another bit from the [Funny Face AU](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24021631) where Aziraphale strikes a deal in order to get to Paris.

Aziraphale stood on the pavement outside the Quality offices, his head tipped back, staring up at the tower of concrete and glass. He seldom ventured so far downtown and the crowds and noise were a bit overwhelming. Someone jostled him rudely, reminding him that he was just standing there, in the way. Clutching his black leather satchel tightly to his chest, he took a deep breath and hurried inside. After what felt like a very long ride in the lift, he was deposited in a very white, very clean reception area.

"Um, hello," he said to the woman at the desk. "I'm here to deliver some books."

Barely glancing at him, she waved a manicured hand at the hallway to his left. "Straight back, double doors at the end," she said in a bored voice.

"Thank you." Wishing to get the delivery completed and back to his shop as quickly as possible, he stepped briskly down the indicated hall. It was lined with large framed prints of various Quality covers. He could imagine why the magazine was so popular; the models and the beautiful clothes were evocative. Though he never kowtowed to trend, he did occasionally indulge in a new necktie, or perhaps a silk cravat if he was feeling especially whimsical, but looking at these images he could understand the desire of a reader to want to capture something of that ineffable emotion for themselves. 

And now that he had met the man who had taken these pictures, Aziraphale could sense something in them that went deeper than the desire to advertise the clothes. An appreciation for form and light that spoke of artistry, a painter's touch, artistic talent he had caught a glimpse of the other day in the bookshop.

_More than a glimpse,_ he thought, remembering with a sudden blush the way Crowley had looked at him on the ladder. All the more reason to get the delivery over with quickly.

Through the double doors he found a smaller and cozier version of the first lobby with a more friendly secretary.

"We've been expecting you, Mr. Fell. Right this way."

She led him through yet another door. As he expected to see Crowley, he was momentarily surprised to see a woman behind the desk, flanked by two others, all looking incredibly businesslike. They were also appraising him with such scrutiny that he suddenly felt like the pastries he pondered each morning at his favorite bakery.

"I've brought some books," he managed to stammer.

"Just put them over there." The woman behind the desk waved an impatient hand at a side table. Aziraphale did as instructed. When he turned around again, he was startled to find the younger women right behind him.

"Not bad posture," one said, her head cocked inquisitively to the side.

"Height's on the short end, but that's not exactly a problem," her companion said.

"The hair will have to be tinted." They fluttered around him like moths, rattling off a litany of his attributes.

"But the eyes! And the mouth is marvelous!"

Aziraphale tried to give some kind of protest to being poked, prodded, and pushed around by these women, but one of them had his cheeks between her hands and it was rather difficult. "I don't understand," he managed in a squished voice.

The woman in charge clapped her hands once and he was released. She came up to him, glancing critically over his outfit. "First things first. The outfit has got to go." She made to grab for his coat, but Aziraphale stumbled back.

"Now wait just a moment! I did not come here to be accosted! I came here to deliver these books and as I have done so I would like my payment. There will be no tinting of my hair or anything else and the marvelousness of my mouth is neither here nor there." He backed toward the door.

"I'm afraid we really don't have time for this. We have a deadline to meet."

They were converging on him again. Panicking, he fumbled for the door handle and stumbled through but found he was not in the lobby. Instead he was running down another hallway. He could hear the unhurried clack of heels behind him; they knew he was cornered. He pushed through the first unlocked door he found, rushed through a busy floor of cubicles, and out the other side to yet another hallway. Briefly feeling like a mouse in a maze, he tried the handle of the small door before him and, finding it blessedly unlocked, slipped inside.

"Hey!" A voice cried. "Didn't you see the light!"

It took a moment for Aziraphale's eyes to adjust to the dim red glow of the room. By the time they did, Crowley was in front of him.

"Oh!" Surprise gave way to recognition on the other man's face. Before he could speak further, Aziraphale pressed a hand to his mouth. A moment later, there was a knock at the door.

"Anthony? Have you seen the man from the bookshop?"

Aziraphale hurriedly shook his head, pleading for silence. Crowley smiled against his palm before pulling back.

"No, he hasn't been through here," he called. Aziraphale sagged against the door in relief.

"Well, if you see him, hang onto him!"

"Oh, I'll do my best."

The footsteps outside retreated. Crowley, one arm propped against the door, grinned down at Aziraphale. "Nice to see you again, angel."

Aziraphale pushed him away angrily. "Did you have something to do with this? I come here to deliver some books and find myself being accosted by women who want to tart me up like some kind of model!" He said the last word like it left an unpleasant taste in his mouth.

Crowley sighed. "I'm afraid I did. Look, I apologize. I put in the order to get you down here but I didn't think they'd pounce on you like that."

"You did? But why?"

"I want you in the magazine."

Aziraphale crossed his arms. "I already explained that I do not want the shop mentioned."

Crowley waved his hands. "Not the shop - you." He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Tracy was supposed to explain. Here, sit down a minute and I'll show you." He motioned to a stool. Aziraphale debated for a moment, then realized that being in here was safer than out in the office with those women, so he sat.

"It'll take a minute. You ruined the print bursting in like that." Crowley turned back to the table that occupied most of the space in the little room. He took a sheet of paper from a neat stack and pinned it under a projector that flared to life at the flick of a switch. Aziraphale blinked at the bright light. When his vision cleared again, Crowley was busily dipping the sheet into various trays of liquid. Overcome with curiosity, never having been in a darkroom before, Aziraphale stood to peer over his shoulder. Slowly, the white sheet started to take on shades of gray, shifting and darkening until abstract shapes formed into a clear image. Carefully, Crowley lifted the sheet from the final tray and pinned it to the wall.

Aziraphale stared, his mouth slightly open. Hanging there in stark black and white, was himself. It was the moment from the shop, when he had started to explain the book to the hapless model and Crowley had started to wiggle about on the floor with that antique camera. A beam of sunlight streamed in from overhead, hitting squarely on Aziraphale's shoulders and almost seeming to emanate from him and not the other way around. He looked at the image of himself, entranced; he was smiling, looking carefree and happy and radiantly -

"Beautiful," Crowley supplied quietly, as if he had been reading his thoughts. "You've got a great face, angel, and I want it for my campaign."

Aziraphale huffed a self-conscious laugh. "I have no illusions about my appearance. My face is perfectly funny. I can't be a model."

"That's not true." Crowley turned him around gently. He looked Aziraphale squarely in the eye. "You've got a beautiful face. Everything about you is beautiful, especially when you're like that." He gestured to the photo. "When you started talking about that empathical stuff, it was like your whole being lit up. That's what caught my eye and made you the best thing about that whole afternoon." Crowley seemed about to say something else, but stepped back instead, leaning against the edge of the table. "Look, I won't lie to you. I need you, angel."

Aziraphale's hands clenched involuntarily at the words, but otherwise he kept still as Crowley continued. "This magazine is on it's last legs. We've got one more issue left and then it's quits for Quality but I'll be damned if we go quietly. So we're setting up a retrospective, all the best bits of Quality's history. And I want you to be the centerpiece."

Aziraphale sat back down on the stool in shock. "But why? I don't know anything about fashion!"

"You don't have to. You've got a unique style you don't compromise on for the sake of conformity. You wear what you like and you wear it well. That's all fashion is, angel. And with all those books, you probably know more about the history than you think. Does Newton look like knows how to do up a cravat?"

Aziraphale chuckled. "So you want me to teach him?"

Crowley shook his head. "Haven't you been listening? I want you to model. I've designed a whole series around you! Historic clothes, historic settings in Paris -"

"Paris?" Aziraphale breathed, a stab of excitement in his chest.

"Oh yes, the birthplace of couture. It's all being set up as we speak. Everything depends on you."

Aziraphale clasped his hands together to stop them trembling. "If I agree to this, I'll get to go to Paris?"

Crowley nodded slowly, a knowing smile parting his lips. "One week, angel. Give me one week of undivided attention and then you can do whatever you like. The libraries, the crepes, the professor, all of it in exchange for one week of modeling for me."

"I do wish you'd stop calling me that."

"What?"

"My name," he enunciated patiently, "is Aziraphale."

"Aziraphale." The way Crowley caressed his name sent a shiver down his spine. "That's quite a mouthful." Crowley took a step and was suddenly very close, given the cramped confines of the room. "Shoots happen fast, I can't spend half the time sounding all that out. Angel's not a bad nickname, is it? Besides, I think it suits you." Crowley's hand came up and lightly gripped Aziraphale's chin. "So what do you say, angel, do we have a deal?"

Aziraphale trembled again, remembering the moment-that-almost-was on the ladder and the question he hadn't been able to answer. His mouth had gone dry. It was tempting, so terribly tempting. 

"One week seems a small enough price to pay for Paris," he managed at last.

Crowley grinned and gave a delighted whoop, nearly knocking over several bottles of chemicals in his glee. 

"Oh! But what about the shop!" Aziraphale clutched his face in panic.

"Don't worry about that. Ann can look after it. She's very dependable, angel," Crowley assured him.

Aziraphale wavered. He was completely out of his comfort zone here. Two days ago he'd been alone in his shop with his books and his music and no thought at all about the fashion sphere. And then this ridiculous man had burst in through the door and turned his world upside down, offering him a golden opportunity to finally meet the philosophers whose works he admired. If he only had to stand still while Crowley took pictures and kept looking at him like _that_ ... Well, there really wasn't much of a question, was there?

"All right. I'll do it. But only to get to Paris."

"Sure, angel." Crowley hardly seemed to hear him, grabbing his hand. "Come on, let's find Tracy and tell her the good news!"


	13. Crowley's Flat

Crowley liked his flat, even if he hardly spent any time there. It was quiet. It was more difficult for head office to bother him there, and the neighbors never bothered him at all.

This was chiefly because, technically, his flat didn't exist. Rather, it existed, just slightly up and to the right of the rest of reality.

At first, the place had been a simple necessity, somewhere to hide out between temptations. It was easier to allay suspicion with a centralized location to return to and far more efficient to tempt the locals from right under their noses. The rooms were mundane, bare, and drafty, but they served his purposes. Though, it took almost a decade for him to realize that furniture would help keep up appearances. Every couple of scores he would change the decor depending on his mood and current fashion, though he stuck mostly to minimalism. More difficult for unwanted guests to hide when there isn't much cover.

By the time the building was renovated, he had fairly settled in and, having no desire to go through the hassle of looking for another place, simply removed his flat from the rest and let them get on with it. No one was any the wiser and even though his door ended up mysteriously wedged in at the top of a new staircase, the door still opened to the same place.

After a while, it became more and more convenient to keep certain things around. Despite his cynicism for sentiment, his collection of art kept growing and he needed to put it all somewhere. And, of course, he needed room for his plants. Really, the plants were the only reason he kept using the place. It would be too much of a hassle to move them. The plants, and the art were what compelled him to continue to maintain his little corner of just to the side of space. It certainly had nothing to do with the convenience of the location to the park and a certain bookshop. 

That's what he kept telling himself, anyway.


	14. Godfathers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being responsible for Warlock's upbringing is not quite as straightforward as they initially imagined.

"It'll be fun," Crowley said. "We'll be like godfathers."

Aziraphale thought that sounded very nice indeed. So the next day he went out and tracked down every bit of information he could find about the process.

"I even found a film all about it!" He excitedly showed Cowley the tape, which sent the demon into a fit of hysterical laughter.

"No, angel, that's not... Not quite the same thing."

So they settled for something a bit happier with kites and chalk drawings and set about learning what they could about raising a child.

After a week, they showed up at the Dowling's and realized they were in a bit over their heads. Reading about it was one thing; it was quite another to actually hold the Antichrist.

"He's just so tiny!" Crowley exclaimed after that first day when she joined Aziraphale for tea in the gardener's cottage.

"Babies tend to be so, I believe."

"You don't understand, angel. This baby is absolutely minuscule."

"He looked just the right size to me. You're just nervous, dear."

Crowley put her head in her hands. "I don't think I can do this."

"It was your idea."

"Is it too late to trade?"

Aziraphale frowned. "Absolutely not. Children and I do not mix on the best of days. Babies are out of the question." He softened a little and took her hand gently. "It will be all right, my dear. I have faith in you."

Crowley looked up at him in disbelief. "You really think so?"

Aziraphale nodded. "I do."

"How can he be a month old already? I just dropped him off yesterday!"

"Time does go so quickly when you're having fun."

"Fun? You think this is fun? I don't see you up there changing nappies and being woken up all hours of the night."

"Again, I remind you that I do not tolerate babies."

"Yeah, well, that makes two of us." Crowley crossed her arms petulantly. She huffed a disheveled curl out of her eyes.

"Oh, darling, you can't give up now. You've only just started."

Crowley sighed. "How long is this supposed to take again?"

"About ten more years. Not long at all, really. And I thought you were looking forward to teaching him all about his rightful place in hell."

She smiled weakly. "Yeah, I suppose. Just don't go and undo _everything_ behind my back."

Aziraphale looked at her innocently over the rim of his teacup. "Wouldn't dream of it."

"That child is an absolute menace!" Aziraphale slapped his sunhat down on the table. Now it was Crowley's turn to smile.

"Oho! See how the tables have turned. What did he do this time?"

"You know very well! He has pulled up every seedling I planted on the north lawn. Those took me a week!"

"He's only three. He doesn't know any better."

"And I suppose it was just coincidence that you took him there this morning when I specifically told you to keep off?"

"He's the Antichrist, angel. I can't control his whims for destruction. That's your job, remember?"

Aziraphale's glare was met with an innocent smile.

Crowley burst into the bookshop in a flurry of skirts. "Angel! I need your help. I need you to come with me. Warlock wants to go to the zoo!"

Aziraphale blinked in confusion. "I thought he was at school?"

"It's summer, angel! He's home for summer and he wants to go to the bloody zoo!"

"Shouldn't his mother do that? You haven't been needed for years."

"She's the one who called me!" Crowley took a few deep breaths. "She's got bridge club or something, and what's-his-face is in meetings all day so she called me because apparently now I'm some sort of babysitter! Please, angel? I can't do this by myself."

She looked so dreadfully desperate he really had no choice but to agree. Ten minutes later he found himself in the backseat of the Bentley, trying awkwardly to make conversation with an eight year old.

"Well now, young Warlock, how - how are your studies?"

"Fine. Are you Nanny's boyfriend?"

The car swerved momentarily into the other lane. "I - uh, well, that's a bit complicated..."

"No he is not!" Shouted Crowley from the front seat. "Let's play the quiet game!"

Warlock didn't ask any more questions, but he had a peculiar smirk on his face that made Aziraphale nervous.

"You didn't let me finish, earlier," Aziraphale whispered later when Warlock had finally fallen asleep, contentedly clutching the stuffed duck Crowley had bought him in the gift shop. He had insisted Aziraphale tell him a bedtime story and Crowley had reluctantly agreed, for old time's sake.

She hushed Aziraphale, making extra sure the blankets were just right. She brushed a hand through Warlock's hair with a familiar tenderness Aziraphale had never seen before. Watching it, and her little smile, made his heart clench strangely.

She caught him looking and immediately frowned. "We will discuss this at the bookshop," she hissed, waving him away. "Get going before his mother comes in."

Aziraphale stole a last look at the domestic scene before disappearing.

"You are not my boyfriend," Crowley said a few moments later.

"He was only asking an innocent question."

"He is eight and the Antichrist! There is nothing innocent about him."

Aziraphale stiffened. "I should like to think that all my years instilling in him a love and respect for all creatures has not been in vain. He was very perceptive about the need for conservation at the zoo this afternoon."

Crowley huffed. "That has nothing to do with him asking impertinent questions. And you shouldn't have encouraged him!"

"I was only going to explain that our relationship is more of a diarchic struggle between opposing mores -"

"That's not what he meant, angel! He was asking if we -" She broke off, turning away to hide her blush.

"What? Crowley, tell me."

She sighed, not turning around. "He was asking if we were involved. Romantically."

"Ah." Aziraphale suddenly understood why Warlock had looked so smug. "No, we certainly aren't. I understand your concern. Not wanting him to get the wrong impression."

"Exactly. It's ridiculous."

"Yes. Yes I agree. Perfectly silly."

They were both lying, and they both knew it. Nanny retired that night, for good.

"Did you see the paper this morning, dear?"

"Yes, it's wonderful. He's going to win the vote for sure."

"Well, I should think so. He does take after you."

"Please, angel, you know he always paid more attention to you. His animal conservancy is all anyone talks about."

"But he's got your stubbornness and a hard stare which I hear had even the most senior congressman shaking in his shoes."

"Damn right, he does. Oh, remember to pick up a card when you go out."

"How could I forget?"

Warlock Dowling opened the envelope with a smile. He put the birthday card in pride of place on his desk, affectionately signed by Nanny and her boyfriend.


	15. Miracle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter content warning: Brief discussion of death (conceptual, non character related)
> 
> Aziraphale considers the miracle of life and all that comes with it.

Aziraphale was built for love, he knew, but this - this was something he didn't know how to handle.

He was built to defend, by any means necessary. His was the fierce and protective love of the shepard over his flock. He had smote thousands in the name of Love. He had never questioned, never thought about doing anything else. But then the Lord made humans and said to him 'protect them' and he had found out the hard way that there was more than one way to love.

And, of all things, it had been a demon who showed him how.

Aziraphale had not known, before, who among the angels had helped paint the heavens. He had not particularly been interested. Not his department, after all. It was not until much later, when knowing Crowley was still new, that he had learned.

_That was one of mine,_ he had said.

_It's dead now,_ he had not said.

Aziraphale had left him that night with a new understanding of creation. To create meant knowing that what you had made would someday die. Perhaps not so spectacularly as a star, but it would die; it would change from what you had meant and become something else. The humans died, he knew that, but they changed in other little ways, too. They grew, they learned; they built towers to heaven, built weapons, wrote poems, loved and fought, wept and laughed. Each day that passed meant they shifted more and more from the original blueprint. And eventually, yes, they died. No one could prevent it. One could only watch as what they had made turned slowly, inexorably, ineffably, into something else.

When he had given away his sword, he had thought of it (once he thought of it) as arming one of his battalions. They became to him a faceless phalanx, all named Human, and even without his sword he fought tooth and nail to protect them as he had been charged, all fire and brimstone. This arrangement suited him just fine until the thing he was protecting them from became each other.

Now he was faced with a problem. He had to choose.

None of the other angels who came to join him on their tours of duty among creation had a list, a handy guide for how to proceed. Which group should kill more of that group, whose crops should suffer floods and whose flourish, which animals were more deserving of being left well alone and which tamed to the yoke. There was no consistency, and soon, too much to do anything about on a grand scale. They had to pick smaller and smaller miracles, fewer and more individual humans to shield. Aziraphale had to start really getting to know them, and this meant his love for all started to shift to love for These specifically and so too did his wrath intensify if they were threatened.

It was Crowley who began to show him other paths. Crowley, who lived with them, who stayed in one place long enough to watch them be born, and live, and die, all in one breath. It was this demon who taught Aziraphale that sometimes love is soft, or patient, or kind.

Sometimes love is letting a bad thing happen. Sometimes love is telling someone what they do not want to hear.

_We are enemies, he would say later, and think it was love._

_You go too fast, he would say later, and know it was love._

They would argue often about these distinctions. Aziraphale would say that a demon could not know what it was to love. Crowley would remind him that he had loved more than the rest. Crowley would counter that smiting that which you do not understand does not equate to loving the rest. Aziraphale would mutter that tempting someone into a lesser sin is not the same as salvation.

He had been briefly jealous of Crowley that day on the wall, an incredibly human sin that burnt surprisingly sharp in his new chest. All because Crowley could do the one thing he could not.

Crowley could create.

Crowley could take all the love he felt, all the desire to protect and shelter and cherish, and Make something with it. He made Choices, he looked for Answers, and when the ones he found were not satisfying he simply Made his own. Crowley could put something into the world that had not been there before. Aziraphale had been built as a soldier; he could not do anything with his love except use it to remove whatever threatened his flock. He could not change the course of it, turn it into something else, something it was not supposed to be. He did not at first understand what Crowley had felt watching the death of that star. But he would learn. 

Slowly, so slowly, Aziraphale learned to focus his love. He could not create, but he could appreciate that the humans could. He learned to live among them, to love how they changed and grew. He learned he did not need his sword to protect them. And he learned that sometimes, loving them can hurt.

When the Bible is written, it will say that Crowley's biggest sin is giving Eve the apple. This, in Aziraphale's estimation, was not only false, but misleading. Aziraphale firmly believes that this action was a gift. Crowley allowed the humans to create. Before, they were made. Now, they can make themselves, of themselves. And while it is painful, and sad, and joyous, and all the rest of it, to Aziraphale it is the most wonderful miracle. Life from life, something from something else that is always changing, always making anew.

He never ceases to wonder at it.


	16. Rome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale had been assigned to Nero. He had tried his best, he really had.

When in Rome, the saying goes, do as the Romans do. Aziraphale saw what the Romans did, and has not been back since.

He trembled as he watched the city burn, huddled into a thin cloak and sitting on a rocky hill high above. He shivered, but not from cold; even from there he could feel the heat. Surely, he thought, when they had given him the assignment _ this _ was not the intended result. This couldn't possibly figure into the Plan. Could it?

This time, instead of announcing himself with the usual quip, Crowley bit his tongue. Obviously it was not the right moment. So he cleared his throat softly instead. He tried not to take it personally when the displeasure flickered across Aziraphale's face when he saw him.

"I suppose you're here to gloat," the angel said thickly.

"No." Crowley scuffed a sandal through the dirt. "Just thought you might like some company."

Aziraphale wiped at his ash-stained face with a corner of his cloak. "Your lot are down there, are they?" His voice was rough-edged, his tone bitter and without any of the usual flowery distancing language. "That how you heard about it?" 

It was, but Crowley was sure Aziraphale did not want to hear that. The angel sounded about as fed up with it all as Crowley felt. "Just passing through," he said with a little shrug.

Aziraphale scoffed, but he sounded somewhat amused. Crowley edged closer, and when Aziraphale did not object, sat carefully beside him. They stayed like that for a while in silence, listening to it all fall apart.

"I'm glad you're here," Aziraphale said at last, so quietly Crowley almost missed it. He sighed. "I really thought I'd got through to him."

"Can't win 'em all, angel."

Aziraphale's mouth twitched. Just a little.

Crowley shifted back on his hands, trying to make his nervousness look casual. "I don't know about you, but I'm parched. I don't suppose you know a good place for a drink?"

Aziraphale looked around at him incredulously. "Are you trying to tempt me? Here, really?"

"No, no!" Crowley held up his hands. "Just asking, angel."

Aziraphale peered at him. "Are you feeling all right?"

"For Heaven's sake, angel, I'm not trying to trick you, I'm just being n-" He stood abruptly instead of finishing his thought. "Are you coming or not?"

Aziraphale took one last look over the smoldering ruins below. His expression was hard, but when he turned back to Crowley he was himself again, if a little tired.

"All right. One drink won't do any harm."

Crowley smiled then, the lopsided one he could not seem to get control of around the angel. It faltered a little as Aziraphale put a hand on his arm, just the lightest touch.

"Thank you, Crowley. For this. Being here."

Crowley shrugged him off, but gently. He tossed his head. "Just don't expect me to make a habit of it."

Aziraphale smiled, too, at that. The kind of little scrunched up smile that Crowley felt sure he could coax out into a real grin with enough time. "Come on," Aziraphale said. "I know a little place that does wonderful olives."

All roads lead to Rome, the saying goes. Crowley knows, because he and Aziraphale picked one and started walking, and have not looked back since.


	17. First Times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he said "As you wish," what he meant was: "I love you."

The first time he asks Crowley to stay, it is with an invitation to eat oysters. He doesn't expect it to work. Crowley just seems so down, and he doesn't want to leave him just yet, so he risks a little temptation of his own and asks. It is apparently amusing enough that Crowley agrees. He is too nervous after that to actually eat any oysters, but that wasn't really the point.

The first time he tells Aziraphale he loves him it comes out as a promise to get some people to see a play. He has to fill out 18 separate forms for his trouble (all with pages annoyingly missing, so he has to wait in six different lines to track them down) but remembering the smile that lit up Aziraphale's entire being makes it worthwhile.

* * *

The next time he asks Crowley to stay, it's for crepes. It's wrapped up with a thank-you-for-coming. He expects him to come and is almost worried when he doesn't, until the very last moment. Crowley says he wasn't in the area, but if he hadn't already been in the area, Aziraphale wouldn't have bothered to get caught in the first place.

The next time he says _I love you_, it's by giving Aziraphale a new handkerchief. The last one has been left behind in the prison and Crowley knows how much Aziraphale liked it. He's always needing something to wipe his fingers on anyway, with all he eats, so Crowley replaces it. It's stolen, of course, but Aziraphale accepts it all the same.

* * *

When he says _It will destroy you_ what he means is _It will destroy me_. He is asking Crowley to stay, but he doesn't listen.

He should have been prepared for the Nazis to shoot him; they're Nazis. But he hasn't seen Crowley in so long, it's made him recklessly bold. He thinks he can pull it off. He doesn't expect Crowley to come this time, not like Paris. So when Crowley does show up, at the last minute, as usual, as if nothing has changed, the first thing he does is ask him to stay.

_I'll get used to it_ he says and means _I'm sorry, don't leave again; let me get used to it._

_I didn't want you to embarrass yourself_, he says and means _I will always come for you (you idiot)._

When the bomb comes down, it doesn't even occur to him not to save Crowley, too. Crowley would have done the same for him.

When Crowley saves the books, he hopes the angel will hear him this time.

When Crowley saves the books, it changes things. In that infinitesimal eternity as their fingers brush, Aziraphale realizes that every time Crowley has done this, from the very beginning, it has meant _I love you._ Every time it has meant: _If your love is a grain of sand, mine is a universe of beaches._ And in the space after that, Aziraphale realizes that he loves him back. And it terrifies him. Now, he really doesn't want Crowley to go, but he cannot ask him to stay.

* * *

The first time Crowley asks him to stay, it is with holy water in his hands.

The first time Aziraphale says I love you, it sounds like: I can't. _I thought you were gone once,_ he means, _and it almost destroyed me. I could not bear it if you left again._

The next time Crowley asks him to stay, it is wrapped up in saying he knows Aziraphale loves him. Aziraphale does, and he says so, but what comes out of Aziraphale's mouth is: I don't.

When Crowley asks him to run away, what he means is: Ask me to stay. Aziraphale doesn't.

* * *

_My best friend is dead,_ Crowley thinks.

_No, only mostly dead,_ Aziraphale reassures him. It doesn't help much.

_Stay with me,_ he means when he says "I'll never speak to you again." And Crowley hears him this time.

The next time Crowley asks him to stay, he doesn't expect it to work. But Aziraphale agrees; he doesn't have anywhere else to go.

_I love you,_ they say to each other's faces in the mirror. _I will die for you if there's a chance you will live._

* * *

The first time they say "I love you," it sounds like _To the world._ And that one leaves all the rest behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [ this post by ileolai ](https://ileolai.tumblr.com/post/188192275869) and [ this tweet by poulertweets ](https://twitter.com/poulertweets/status/1141183781111586817). Both making the very excellent point that The Princess Bride is in everything. 
> 
> Underlined sentiments are quoted from Princess Bride.


	18. Church

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a wedding on in Tadfield and Aziraphale thinks he's come up with a way for Crowley to attend without getting hot feet.

_This isn't going to work, angel._

Nonsense. You're not the only one who paid attention to all those doodads Warlock was always playing with. I'm getting the hang of this video thing.

_That's not what I meant._

You don't think that I'll be able to go inside with you?

_Nope._

You just don't want to go! Dear, we agreed.

_You agreed. I said we should just send them a toaster and be done with it._

Well, we're here now so I'm going to try. All right, I'm turning it on ... now! Oh ...

_No, it's the little green button._

Oh, oh I see. Alright, there! 

_Hello, angel._

Hello, dear. Oh this is fun, isn't it? Alright, I am going to try going inside. 

_Go on then. It seems to be working so far I - ack! Ah, no, it burns! Turn back!_

Oh, Crowley dear, I barely stepped over the threshold! Are you all righ - are you laughing? 

_Sorry, couldn't resist. Go ahead I'm fine._

You are such a b - bad person. Now behave yourself.

_Fine, fine. You know, this is a pretty good idea, angel. Even if it is demeaning to be carried around in your pocket._

Yes I know, dear, but it's only for an hour. You can wiggle about all you want at the reception. Now, I'm going to sit nice and close. 

_Bride's side or groom's?_

Bride's of course. I'm still quite miffed at his boss for discorportating me.

_Yeah, me too. Can you see him?_

Yes, there he is.

_Ah, he looks nervous._

It's Newton, dear, he always look nervous. You don't have to sound so pleased about it. Hush, now, it's starting! Oh, look! Don't the children look smart?

_Yes, I can see, angel. I see she listened to me and decided not to go with lilies._

Mm, the chrysanthemums are much nicer. 

_Oh, angel turn around! I want to watch him see her._

Crowley, is that sentiment I detect?

_...shut up._

Anathema looks beautiful.

_Yeah, he thinks so, too. Angel, are you crying?_

Oh, hush.


	19. You Go Too Fast For Me

You're going too fast, he says like it isn't exhilarating. Like it doesn't remind him of racing his comrades like comets.

His heart in his throat, pushing the throttle as far as it will go and then willing it even further just to see what will happen. Maybe the car will rattle apart, maybe he'll get discorporated, maybe it'll be something like flying again.

Slow down, he says like he doesn't wish it could go on like this forever. Like they could just keep driving and not have to worry so much or explain themselves. Like they can outrun God.

If he stops, he may not be able to get going again. He stopped moving once, after going very, very fast, and had to crawl back up on his belly only to find that he could never get up to the stars again.

Go a little faster, he says like he hasn't been wanting this since before he knew what wanting was. Like he hasn't been trying to catch up to this feeling for an eternity. If he stops to think about it he may never close that ineffable distance and he'll be left behind.

You're going too fast, he says with a smile like they're not going exactly the speed limit. Because now, they don't need to go breakneck around the curves and slice like lightening through the city to feel that adrenaline. Now they can just drive, hands wound together on the seat between them, and their hearts do the rest.

Slowly, gently, he says and they have all the time in the world.


	20. Regency

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley stumbles upon Aziraphale's unexpectedly modern reading material.

It was not unusual for Crowley to find Aziraphale nose deep in a book. In fact, it would have been unusual to _not_ find him reading when he stopped by. What made this particular occasion stand out was the kind of book Aziraphale was reading. History, obviously, would not have been amiss. Literature, not suspicious at all, provided it wasn't French. An obscure medical text detailing the one and only time a physician had attempted to define Aziraphale's peculiar biology (unsuccessful, but still an oddly sentimental favorite). Even poetry, on occasion, was to be expected. None of these would have given Crowley pause. But it was odd indeed, to find Aziraphale curled up in the armchair apparently deeply invested in a paperback romance.

A very well-read paperback romance, if the creases in the spine were any indication. And Crowley had never known a book in Aziraphale's possession to have creases.

He snickered, and Aziraphale's head snapped up.

"Crowley!" He squeaked. He made an attempt to hide the book, but Crowley was faster and in a blink the book was in his hand.

"Delight of the Duke?" He read the title archly. "Really, angel, I wouldn't have thought this would be your kind of thing."

"It's not - It's research," Aziraphale insisted, trying to grab it back.

Crowley dangled it just out of reach, knowing Aziraphale would never debase himself with something like _jumping_. His smile grew. "Research?"

Aziraphale sighed. "Yes, if you must know. There is a plight of misinformation in the industry."

One of Crowley's eyebrows raised. "Know a lot about the romance industry, then?"

"That's not - ! The point is, these authors would benefit from guidance, especially in the area of social convention. This one has a gentleman carry a walking stick to a ball! Which is of course, ridiculous. Now, if you would be so kind - " He made another grab for the book, but Crowley danced out of reach.

"You realize this book was published in the 80's."

Aziraphale blanched. "Yes, well. There's always time to learn from the past."

Crowley chuckled and flopped down on the sofa. He thumbed through the pages. "I see. So what else does this one get wrong? Are there petticoats and corsets instead of stays?"

"There are, actually. How did you know?"

"I may have dabbled in the genre myself, and that's the main thing that's wrong. Although, more recent ones are much better about the fashion. Very detailed. Especially when they come off." He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Aziraphale huffed. "Oh, really, Crowley. That's not why - " He stopped. He couldn't very well blurt out 'That's not why I read them,' because that would imply that he _did_ read them. And he didn't. 

"Ugh, they were itchy," Crowley groused. "Always right between the shoulders." He wiggled at the memory.

Now Aziraphale's eyebrows were raised. "I didn't know you were familiar."

"Once or twice," Crowley murmured, hiding his face in the book. "Wasn't a fan."

"Pity. I should have liked to see you in one of these." Aziraphale leaned over the couch and tapped the cover. Crowley snorted.

"If empire waists ever come back in, I'll keep that in mind." 

Aziraphale smiled as he deftly plucked the book out of Crowley's grasp. He replaced it on its customary shelf, careful not to let Crowley see that there were several other paperbacks with it. He made a mental note to hide them more thoroughly.


	21. Apocalypse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On a new assignment from Upstairs, Aziraphale and Crowley are tasked with taking pictures.

They were supposed to be taking pictures of all the things they would save, if events went sideways again. Which, knowing how their previous sides operate, was more than likely.

They were supposed to be cataloging humanity's great achievements, so that if the time came, they could present solid evidence that the earth should not be destroyed. (Or at the very least, preserved somewhere else).

They were _supposed_ to be taking this seriously.

But Crowley was taking pictures of ducks.

"They're cleverer than they look, angel. You never know what they might get up to in the next 6000 years."

"I hardly think ducks will be the deciding factor in convincing anyone that there should not be another apocalypse." Crowley ignored him and snapped another picture of the mallard. "And anyway, if you're going to take pictures of ducks, at least choose the interesting ones."

"The common mallard is much more significant to the population than a more selective genus," Crowley intoned haughtily. "And you have no right to debase my ducks when all you've been taking pictures of are your plates when we go out to eat."

Aziraphale gasped, affronted. "I do not!"

Crowley frowned and snapped his fingers. The camera left Aziraphale's pocket and appeared in his hand. "Let's see. Eight pictures of your morning coffee and pastry from the bakery next door, twenty pictures of sushi, every wine we have had with dinner for the past two weeks, and four of napkins."

Aziraphale fiddled with a button on his sleeve. "They were folded so nicely," he murmured.

Crowley continued scrolling. "And that's just this month! We've been at this for a year already and you've filled this thing - " He paused, staring at the picture on the screen. He clicked forward some more. He was very quiet, which was making Aziraphale nervous.

"Angel," he said at last. "Why are there so many pictures of me?"

Aziraphale felt himself flush. He cleared his throat. "Ah, well." He cast about for something to say that wasn't pathetically tenderhearted.

"There's thousands of them!" Crowley thrust the camera under his nose.

"Please don't shout, we are in public!"

"Why angel?"

"Because - "

"When we're out," Crowley continued over him, attracting several curious glances from passerby. "At the shop. Even when I'm," his voice dipped to a dangerous hiss, "sssleeping! What's your excuse for that compared to my ducks?"

"Because I love you!" Aziraphale cried desperately, his eyes closed tight. "Because I love you and you are so important to me," he continued more quietly. He opened one eye to judge Crowley's reaction. The demon was standing very still, his mouth slightly open in surprise.

"If it came to it again - and you know that I love lots of things about earth and the humans, you _know_ that - but if it came right down to it," Aziraphale paused and let out a huff of anxious breath. "You are what I would want to save."

"Angel," Crowley breathed.

Aziraphale stood, rather defiant, refusing to let embarrassment get the better of him. Crowley's heart melted.

"Oh, angel, that's - that's the nicest thing." He found it increasingly hard to continue without dissolving into tears. He sniffed and pulled up his own picture history, silently holding the camera out to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale took it, started scrolling, and was almost immediately more of a mess than Crowley. In between all the ducks, there was only one other thing on Crowley's camera.

Him.

Every moment they had shared together over the past year was documented. Every meal (shots of him, eyes closed, enjoying a choice mouthful); every picnic (shots of him looking wistfully at a sunset); every concert and play (shots of him staring enraptured at the stage or showing off a new evening coat). The first time Crowley had brought a plant to the shop, the first mug Aziraphale had left in Crowley's flat so he didn't have to summon one, all the way up to just that morning when Aziraphale had found a nice new tie at the market. There he was, delight on his face as he held it up for Crowley to see, captured with a click.

"If it came to it, you're the only thing I'd want to save, angel." Crowley hooked a finger under Aziraphale's chin, gently tipping his face up from the pictures.

Aziraphale blinked away tears and grinned. "Well, that's a bit unfortunate for humanity, but I'll take it. I love you, Crowley."

"I love you too, Aziraphale."

The duck quacked in agreement, but for once it was ignored.


	22. Dancing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One last [Funny Face tidbit.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24021631) Now, Aziraphale's not quite as interpretive Audrey Hepburn, but I can imagine him perfectly well doing a few turns of the gavotte in a smoky club, even if it isn't technically something that you'd dance to with jazz.

"Anthony, where is our model?" Tracy glared at him, hands on her hips, mouth a dangerously thin line.

"He didn't show for the fitting?"

"He did not. We waited two hours!" She leant down and pointed a perfectly manicured nail in his face. "You find him and tell him if he's not here right on the dot tomorrow, you're both fired!"

Crowley just managed to resist the urge to salute. He hurried from the designer's studio and drove to the artist's quarter. He had a feeling he knew exactly where Aziraphale was.

The club was certainly discreet. Crowley slipped down the little staircase and into the basement cafe. The room was so dark, he had to take off his glasses and even then he could hardly see. The air was thick with smoke and staccato jazz. More than one pair of hands reached out to pull him into a secluded corner for what he was certain was not purely philosophical discussion. He made his way to the bar which was the only place apart from the makeshift stage that could be called brightly lit. But even in the dark, it was impossible to miss that blonde hair.

Aziraphale was in the middle of the tiny dance floor, looking positively ebullient. He and several other dancers were in a line, bobbing and weaving amongst each other, arms spread wide and legs kicking out every which way. Crowley couldn't decide if it qualified as dancing or not. Whatever it was, Aziraphale was having fun and was apparently very good at it because he never missed a beat. He passed from partner to partner with practiced ease that made Crowley strangely jealous. True, he hand't known Aziraphale long, but the idea that he had ingratiated himself with a crowd of perfect strangers, opting to spend the day with _them_ instead of being at the studio with _him_ did not sit comfortably in his chest.

When the dancers swung around, Crowley reached out and hooked Aziraphale by the arm, separating him from the rest.

"Oh! Crowley, hello!" Aziraphale beamed at him, pink-cheeked and breathless, like he'd just been waiting for Crowley to arrive. "Come and dance!"

"No. You're coming with me. Now." He pulled Aziraphale toward the exit, but was met with stubborn resistance. 

"Just one dance."

"Absolutely not. You're in big trouble."

"I am?" 

The tone of innocence was the last straw. Crowley pulled Aziraphale close, shoving him bodily against the nearest wall. "One week, angel," he growled. "You promised me _one week_. After that, you can gad about as much as you like but right now, you belong to me."

Aziraphale shuddered in his grip. "I was coming to the studio, I promise I was!" He said meekly. "I only stopped in to inquire about the Professor, and I got to talking with some of the students and I - "

"Got distracted?"

Aziraphale flushed, flashing a tipsy little smile. "Well, I had to dance with Mimi."

Crowley frowned. "Mimi? Who's Mimi?"

"Mimi is ... Mimi," Aziraphale told him with a dreamy kind of smile that implied Mimi and Aziraphale knew each other very well. He followed Aziraphale's nod to a bright young thing swaying altogether too close for Crowley's taste to their partner on the dance floor. Mimi caught his eye and winked.

"It's very rude to decline a dance from Mimi, you see," Aziraphale explained.

Jealousy stabbed through Crowley's chest again. The thought of Mimi draped over Aziraphale like that was unpleasant to say the least. Really, he had no reason to feel so possessive, aside from the fact that Aziraphale was only in Paris thanks to him. 

"Rude or not, you've got a job to do, people depending on you. Including me." He stared hard at Aziraphale a moment longer before letting him go. "You. Hotel. Now. Maybe we can make it up to Tracy tomorrow before she ships us both back home."

"She can't really fire you, can she?" Aziraphale asked anxiously as he stumbled up the steps after Crowley.

"No, but I'm not going to be the one to tell her that." He glanced back at Aziraphale, who was struggling to keep up. He sighed and gently bundled him into the car. "Come on, I'll drive you."

Aziraphale settled gratefully into the seat. His head tipped onto Crowley's shoulder. "Thank you, my dear. I'm sorry about all this. I'll do better tomorrow, I promise."

Crowley smiled. Somehow, he couldn't stay mad at the little philosopher. "Just get some sleep and some water, angel. I'll pick you up in the morning."

Aziraphale hummed and snuggled more fully against his side. "Tomorrow. Sounds wonderful, dear," he murmured before falling asleep.


	23. Golgotha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for this chapter: mention of death, crucifixion, grief, a mother mourning her child.
> 
> Crowley stands watch at the crucifixion of Jesus of Nazareth, alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's not really any way for Golgotha to be anything but sad. No matter what you believe, that's a horrible thing to do to a person. And I think Crowley would understand how terrible it is in a way Aziraphale is not ready to admit by that point.

_What was it he said that's got them so upset?_  
_Be kind to each other._  
_Ah. That would do it._

Aziraphale had left, shortly after that. Whatever plan Heaven had for this man, his usefulness had apparently run its course. So they had left him behind, to suffer, and to die. Slowly.

Crowley did not leave. Could not. They had known this man, shown him the great things of the world. They had tried to change his mind, steer him from this course, but the path was already laid. Now, all Crowley could do was watch. They shrouded themselves in stillness and shadow, passing the night unobserved. All three men were praying. Even though it was useless and painful, they used the last of their strength and breath to do it. Crowley could not be sure if it brought any comfort, but they hoped so.

In the night, Crowley prayed, too. Prayed long forgotten words to a long forgotten mother. And Crowley wept.

By morning, all three men were still and silent. Crowley winced when the spear sank between the ribs, but otherwise did not move. They stood, also still and silent, and watched the body come down. Watched a mother cradle what remained of her son. Later, they would describe this moment to a painter, on a night when the weight of the memory overflowed its bounds and streamed forth in a drunken, angry tide; but that morning, they had simply watched.

The women cleaned him, wrapped him in the burial shroud. His mother folded it over his wasted frame with as much care and tenderness as she had swaddled him as a babe. Thirty three years was not very long to a mother's memory. She should not have to do this, not when he had so much life left ahead of him. Had she known, when Gabriel delivered his message? Had she felt it somehow, as his life grew within her? Had the shadow of his future hung before her eyes every time she looked at him? Crowley could not say. But she had loved him then, and loved him still, that was clear.

Crowley saw her love and distantly wondered what it would feel like to be loved like that. To be loved at all. And Crowley wept.

Crowley watched as they carried him off to the tomb. No one came for the other two. No women wept at their feet. No one else had waited for them. No one, save Crowley and the man who had died along side them.

So Crowley stood. And Crowley wept.


	24. Shakespeare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys take in a day at the Globe and are pleased to find that there are more ways than ever to experience Shakespeare's works.

The theater may have been new, but it looked just how Aziraphale remembered it. Their old box was just where it had been; a bit less scuffed from use, certainly cleaner than it had been before, but still just as cozy. And perfectly situated because as much as he liked to see the stage, what Aziraphale liked to watch most was the audience. That added to his enjoyment, especially after a certain someone worked a little miracle ensuring the seats were fuller that first afternoon.

The actors may have been approaching a fairly antique work, but it moved him just as much as he remembered.

"Why are they doing that with their hands?" Crowley leaned over to whisper.

"They are using sign language,"Aziraphale whispered back, hardly able to contain his excitement. "Speaking with their hands."

"Oh." Crowley sat back again. He had known people to do that before, had learned some signs himself, but they were mostly about sheparding. As he continued to watch, something shifted. He leaned forward, his eyes widening behind his glasses. "Oh!" He said again, hushed with sudden understanding. "That's brilliant!"

Aziraphale agreed wholeheartedly. He had witnessed lots of change come to these works over time. It always amazed him how each new generation managed to find something new in them, something that was worth keeping. It was wonderful that people could still come here, to this stage, to see and hear these plays, and still enjoy them after so long. But this, this was something new. Now, this Deaf actress and her colleagues were working together to add a whole new layer of understanding to the work by giving the words action.

And the words, oh, the words. They were still there, just as he remembered them. Dear Guildenstern, her fingers flowed so, they seemed to bend the very air. It reminded Aziraphale of a conductor, shaping the music with a movement, the sound made physical. To watch all the actors use this new language, to blend the action of the mouth and the hands, was delightful.

"Isn't it beautiful! Oh, if Will could have seen this."

"I think he'd be pretty chuffed people are still coming," Crowley said. Aziraphale poked him in the ribs. Crowley caught his hand with a chuckle and brought it to his lips. "I also think he would have loved it."

Aziraphale smiled and gave Crowley's hand a kiss of his own. "Thank you," he said with a nod to the theater, "for this."

"I didn't do this, angel. Will and his lads made this happen. Humanity made this happen. I just paid off the blokes at the pub to come in and fill the seats. Not my fault that word spread."

"Well, whatever you did, I am grateful for it."

The theater is just how Aziraphale remembers it, full of life and laughter, and people sitting together watching the same play but understanding it a hundred different ways. It continues to live, to change and grow, and he is sure that there will be something new tomorrow. He cannot wait to see it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In 2018, Deaf actress Nadia Nadarajah joined the Globe company and helped create performances that integrated sign language with the Shakespearean language, using the sign language as an embedded part of the action and not simply an interpretation off to the side. I think that's pretty darn cool, and I think Aziraphale would find the idea simply top drawer. 
> 
> More info [here in a convo with Michelle Terry about working at the Globe](https://medium.com/@shakespearesglobe/michelle-terry-nadia-nadarajah-in-conversation-64d97562e84) and she authored an article [ here about the difference between art and access.](https://limpingchicken.com/2016/06/15/nadia-nadarajah-sign-language-in-theatre-should-be-art-not-access/)


	25. St. James's Park

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No one can say when it started, but on certain days, there's something a little miraculous about being in St. James' Park.

The next time you chance to visit St. James's park, perhaps it will be in autumn. In the evenings, mist clings to the paths and lasts well into morning, making you think of ghosts and lost travelers. The air is mossy and cool, the fallen leaves wet and treacherous. Winter is just around the corner and already the city is getting tense. But if you chance to cut past the the Guard's Memorial, there may be a little cart waiting with hot cider spiced with all the smells of home. And it will be warm and comforting and just what you need to make the night a little brighter. The fact that the cart seems to disappear back into the fog once you depart will not be alarming, but rather make you think of those books you loved as a child full of mysterious happenings just like this.

Perhaps the next time you visit will be summer, when the park is bustling with people. It may be a little too loud, or a little too hot, and your picnic lunch may be a little bit spoiled by the overambitious pigeons, but you should not let it ruin your day. Because if you happen to just cross the lake there, you may find a nice quiet spot in the shade. You may also see a kindly looking man who, despite his overcoat, does not seem bothered by the heat. And he may decide to buy an extra ice cream from the vendor and give it to a child who has just dropped theirs on the pavement. His friend, also looking pleasantly cool despite his layers of black, may roll his eyes, but this little act of kindness will warm your heart and make the day seem just a little sunnier.

If it is winter when you find yourself huddled into your coat against the grey, steely sleet, then you may wonder why this is considered the season of cheer. There is little here to celebrate; the trees are bare, the grass brown, and the ducks have fled. But as you walk, you may spot a bundle left behind on a bench. It will be a scarf, or a sturdy pair of gloves, or a warm blanket. They will be tucked into the corners, always dry despite the weather, there right when someone needs them. A small kindness, a little miracle for someone in need. The packages are scattered throughout the park, and appear all winter. No one knows who leaves them, or how they stay protected from the weather, but maybe it isn't as mysterious as others think.

But if you chance to visit St. James's park, visit in spring. The flowers are coming into bloom, the birds trilling in every bush, and even if it may rain, the feeling in the air is hopeful. And if you chance to stroll down by the lake, you may find two men feeding the ducks. They come evey day, rain or shine. The rehead is very protective of the ducklings; he has given each of them a name. He will gladly talk your ear off about them, if you have a few hours to spare. His partner, the blonde who sits happily on the bench, will watch with a smile as he shows the curious children how to feed them (never bread, of course) and how to tell the different kinds apart. They have watched many generations of ducks grow up in this park, and will watch many more. When the ducks are all fed, the pair will walk home together hand in hand and you may think you see a hint of a wing over their shoulders, but it is probably just a trick of the light as it suddenly appears from behind a cloud to stream in through the fresh new leaves.


	26. Fantasy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For as much as Aziraphale knows, there are still a few things Crowley would like to teach him. 
> 
> This one's just a lil' cheeky.

Crowley turned onto his side in the bed, looking up at Aziraphale. "You know what I've wanted for a while?"

"Hm?" Aziraphale gave him a tiny smile before turing the page on his book.

"I've always wanted to teach you how to drive."

Aziraphale snorted.

"No, really. I think you'd like it."

Aziraphale marked his page with a finger, closed the book, and gave Crowley his full attention. "Darling, I hate being the passenger in that death trap of yours. Why ever would I want to drive it?"

Crowley shook his head slowly. "You misunderstand. I know you don't like my speeding, or my genral disreagrd for any kind of traffic law, and would rather be discorporated again than get behind the wheel. I mean," and he propped himself up, leaning closer, "that I want to _teach_ you how to drive."

"I don't - " Aziraphale felt himself shiver under Crowley's concentrated gaze.

"Oh, I think you do, angel. Just us, out on a quiet country lane somewhere. You slide behind the wheel and I can get nice and close," - he demonstrated - "and show you what all the buttons do."

"There are rather a lot of them," Aziraphale agreed quietly.

"And I can guide your hands on the clutch, becuse you have to do it just right." Crowley took Aziraphale's hand, putting the book aside (carefully, of course). 

"Oh, yes I imagine you do," Aziraphale murmured.

"And then I'll let you take her out, nice and slow." Crowley's other hand became occupied with inching up Aziraphale's thigh.

"Can I wear driving gloves?" Aziraphale asked suddenly. "Only I saw some in the shop the other day and they do look rather nice."

Crowley burst out laughing. "Angel, you can wear whatever you like." He tilted his head appraisngly. "I think you'd pull it off; the whole ensemble! Hat, gloves, airman's scarf, driving gloves, goggles, you'll look fantastic!"

Aziraphale giggled, smothered under a sudden kiss on the cheek. "Well then dear boy, perhaps I'll let you take me out to the country next weekened and you can show me how it's done."

Crowley grinned wickedly. "I think that can be arranged."


	27. Confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's play spot the Monty Python reference. No angels were actually tortured in the making of this fic, he's just very ticklish.

Aziraphale had just settled into the more comfortable of the chairs by the window in the flat and was intending to finish the novel he'd started before saving the world had become rather more pressing. 

"Hullo, angel," Crowley called, coming up the steps with the shopping for making dinner that evening.

"Oh, hello." Aziraphale buried his face in the book. 

Crowley paused. Usually, Aziraphale was a bit happier to see him. He put the bags down in the kitchen. When he returned, Aziraphale was still sitting, book held high to cover his face, but did not seem to actually be reading. Definitely fishy.

"Still fancy the salmon for supper?"

"Yes, sounds lovely."

Crowley crept closer to the chair. He licked his lips a few times. Something in the air tasted ... deceitful. Aziraphale was still pretending to read. Crowley came over and draped himself over the back, leaning close to sniff at Aziraphale's collar.

"Something wrong, dear?" Aziraphale said, a bit too brightly.

"You smell different. You smell ... like a sssinner," Crowley hissed with a smile.

Aziraphale started and nearly dropped the book. "That's ridiculous."

"No, I can tell. You've definitely been bad today."

Aziraphale gave a nervous little laugh. "Very funny. Now will you please stop breathing down my neck. It tickles."

"What was it? Accuse some patrons of loitering? Got a little covetous of that new cravat in the shop window?"

"I am innocent of any sins today, thank you." Aziraphale shut the book with a snap and made to get up, but Crowley caught him by the shoulders and held him in place.

"The nose knows, angel. I'm getting to the bottom of this one way" - he walked the fingers of one hand down Aziraphale's side and poked him gently in the ribs - "or the other."

Aziraphale flinched. "That tickled!"

"That's rather the idea, angel. Talk, or you get tickled."

"But I haven't done anything!" He insisted, trying vainly to wiggle away from Crowley's nimble fingers.

"Come on, angel. Confesss!"

"No!" 

Crowley tickled the back of his neck. "Confesss!" He tickled under his arms. "Confesss!" Aziraphale continued to squirm, trying at once to keep his secret and not succumb to laughter.

"All right, all right!" He finally managed to wiggle out of reach and stand, putting the chair between them. He sighed. "I ate the last slice of cake," he admitted miserably.

Crowley gasped. "But I thought you were saving that for me!"

Aziraphale's face crumpled. "I was! But - oh, there was nothing else in for tea and you know I have a horrible sweet tooth. I was only going to have one bite, but then it was gone." He held out his hands in supplication. "I'll buy you more, dear."

Crowley, who had been trying to affect a look of stern disappointment, couldn't hold back the laughter any longer. After a moment, Aziraphale joined in, too.

"I forgive you, angel. We'll stop by the bakery after supper."

"I am sorry. But I hope you aren't going to subject me to an inquisition every time."

Crowley grinned. "I can promise nothing. It defeats the purpose if you expect it."

Aziraphale ended up buying two different cakes, just in case. And they were both delicious, because Crowley was - naturally - more than happy to share.


	28. Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Halloween and the boys have a party to get to.

Crowley glowered out the shop window at the crowds on the street. The sun had set and the children were starting to really run amok. He was keeping a sharp eye on his car in between checking his watch. 

"Are you nearly ready?" He called into the back for Aziraphale. "You've been ages!"

"Nearly there!"

Crowley groaned. Knowing Aziraphale, that could mean anything between the next moment and ten more minutes. He resumed his surveillance. Two bold children dressed as some sort of wizards (they were superheros, but Crowley saw capes and jumped to the first frame of reference he had) approached the door of the shop, but he snarled at them from beside the closed sign and they scurried away. That part was fun, at least, but everything else about All Hallows' Eve was completely torturous. He remembered when people used to be properly afraid. What had happened to the good old days? 

"What do you think?" Aziraphale announced behind him. Crowley turned.

"What - and I mean this in the nicest possible way, angel - _are_ you wearing?"

Aziraphale was positively glowing in his white tailcoat. He turned slowly to show Crowley the effect of the cape, which was less a cape and more a diaphanous fall of silk so sheer it was nearly weightless, tinted the soft green of new _stachys byzantia_ (Crowley would be damned all over again before he ever called them 'lambs' ears'), which gave the effect of -

"Wings? Really? That's not a little too on the nose?"

Aziraphale tipped up his chin proudly. "Well, I am a moth. And where are yours?"

Crowley crossed his arms. "M'not wearing those things." He cast a disdainful look at the coat rack.

"Oh, now, we won't match otherwise." Aziraphale grinned and took down Crowley's cloak. Cut in a similar style, his was supple velvet so black it seemed to swallow any light that touched it. The ends tapered to little points because Crowley was supposed to be a bat but at present he was looking more like a sulky child.

"You look so fetching, dear. And it's only for a few hours. I seem to recall you being more than willing to dance the night away not too long ago."

"That was different. There was elegance to balls back then! Now it's just, posturing. Seeing who's got the most money to throw at a designer. There's no invention."

"And that's exactly why we agreed on these costumes," Aziraphale said as he wrapped the cloak around Crowley's shoulders. He ignored the grumbles and fixed it in place, mollifying the situation by giving Crowley a peck on the cheek. "There now. I must say, you do look nice. Sexy, even," he said with a little blush.

Crowley raised an eyebrow. "Sexy, huh?"

Aziraphale ducked out of his reach. "Don't crush the silk, darling. Come along, we're late."

"Ugh, fine. Hope those hooligans haven't done anything to my car." He held the door open for Aziraphale. He allowed himself an appreciative look at the figure he cut, starkly shining against the night. Aziraphale smiled at him over his shoulder. Maybe Crowley could find the energy to dance the night away again, just this once, if only to keep that smile on his angel's face. It was All Hallows' Eve, after all; stranger things have happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by this lovely vintage plate.  



	29. Ring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a reason Aziraphale doesn't have an answering machine.

Aziraphale had not wanted to install a phone in the shop. He had been reticent to have the place wired for electricity at all. He had got along just fine with candles and gas lamps for centuries so he saw no reason to change. If anything, an undertaking like that would only invite more people into the shop which was the last thing he wanted.

The decision to finally get with the times had more or less been made for him though it had not been Crowley that pressed the issue. It had been Gabriel.

After one too many unexpected drop-ins checking up on his mission, thinly veiled pleasantries belying the increased suspicion that Aziraphale was not keeping as close an eye on Crowley as he could be, Aziraphale realized that their usual meeting methods were becoming too dangerous. The occasional telegram, the surreptitious note slipped to a runner for a farthing, even the rarely used notice in the back page of the newspaper were all too slow and unpredictable. He and Crowley had to come up with a better way of keeping in contact. So when the opportunity arose to have an almost instantaneous communication from miles apart, Aziraphale bit the proverbial bullet and got himself a telephone.

It took a little getting used to, but it proved to be extremely beneficial to have Crowley only a ring away. Aziraphale much preferred it to all the complicated codes and sneaking around Crowley was fond of. The only problem came up when the number was given out by one wayward operator and customers started calling. Aziraphale soon had to write up a little script to shout down the line at regular intervals to try to dissuade people from coming by or asking after a rare volume. And he couldn't just let it ring, because it might be Crowley at the other end. Admittedly, it did break up a little of the monotony of his days, so he didn't mind that much.

When it was Crowley - and he still liked to use code names, especially after watching all those wartime spy movies - Aziraphale found himself increasingly happy to hear his voice. Whether this was simply because he was not a pestering customer or because it was Crowley, he couldn't have said. Eventually, the distinction ceased to matter. The point was, Aziraphale began to associate the ring of the phone with Crowley. The disappointment when it wasn't Crowley only amplified his frostiness with any intrepid book seekers and he amended his little rote speeches accordingly. Sometimes it amazed him that people still tried to phone up because he felt he was being really quite unpleasant. (It was, however, nearly impossible for him to really be unpleasant, for no matter how much vitriol he put into his voice, it still sounded warm, if a bit put out, to the person on the other end. Further attempts to get the number unlisted again were met with limited success; somehow it always got passed on).

He only changed models a few times, using them long past the time they should have stopped working. He stowed them away on various shelves like the rest of his antiques, never feeling quite able to put them out for a jumble sale even though he should have because they took up valuable room he could be using for books. There was one particularly delicate cradle style one he kept upstairs in the flat that had never actually been installed, he just liked it. Each one had a particular tone to the bells and each reminded him very fondly of some meeting or another. He had not told Crowley about them, so it came as a bit of a surprise when he uncovered them while they were packing up the shop.

Aziraphale demurred and made excuses, but had eventually been worn down to admitting that he had kept them because of sentiment. Just because they reminded him of Crowley. Well, Crowley had thought there was nothing so strange about that, considering he'd done exactly the same thing. So he had insisted upon installing one of Aziraphale's favorites in their new cottage. Every so often they would get a call from their friends in Tadfield, or from London, or from their favorite restaurant to confirm a reservation. But more often than not, the phone would go unanswered and the ancient little bells would ring out into the sunny parlor. Aziraphale didn't need to answer it because Crowley was right there with him, where he belonged.


	30. Bentley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale attempts to drive only because of a rather inconvenient situation: a ruined picnic.

He should have paid more attention when Crowley offered to teach him how to drive. He really, really should have paid more attention to where he put his feet and hands instead of complaining about how fast they were going. And he absolutely should have looked at a few more road maps because he had absolutely no idea where they were going.

So it was a very good thing that the Bentley was presently driving itself down the A272 back to the cottage because Aziraphale was busy covering his eyes with his hands.

"Oh dear," he muttered over and over under his breath as the car swerved through what was blessedly light traffic. He hoped Crowley appreciated all the trouble he was going through.

The day had started off perfectly fine. Aziraphale had spent the morning carefully packing a nice picnic for them to take to the park. They had found a nice little space in a little patch of sun. There was a family on camping holiday not too far away, but they had not been any bother. Then Crowley had got it into his head to scare them when he thought Aziraphale wasn't looking. Just a little rustle of the bushes, a flash of yellow eyes, perfectly harmless. Aziraphale had turned around and caught him sneaking up on the poor unsuspecting people and shouted his name so sharply it came out like a crack of thunder. This had the effect of scaring Crowley so much he had _actually_ turned into a snake. Which meant that Aziraphale had to abandon the picnic because when the campers spotted what appeared to be a jet black python in the middle of the woods, it was just easier to grab Crowley and run back to the car than try to explain. He had tried to mollify them with a tiny little miracle but had not stayed around to find out if it had worked.

So he had shoved Crowley into the backseat and slid behind the wheel without having any idea of how to get home. All he knew about driving was that it went very fast. The Bentley, having had enough little miracles put into it by Crowley, had obliged by pealing out of the park and onto the motorway like it was the Grand Prix. Aziraphale added little to the situation besides occasional panicked moans and fervent thoughts of home. That was enough, however, to get the car from point A to point B in record time. Once they squealed to a halt, Aziraphale risked a peek through his fingers and found, to his immense relief, that they were pulled up before the cottage. 

There was a long groan from the backseat followed by some fumbling with the handle and Crowley tumbled bodily from the car onto the pavement.

"Crowley! Are you all right?" Aziraphale helped him to his feet.

"Fine, angel," he rasped, rubbing his neck. "You didn't do too bad, all things considered. Was a tad fast, though." Crowley chuckled as he ducked the annoyed swing Aziraphale took at his arm.

"You're one to talk! And this is all your fault anyway! What were you thinking, trying to scare that poor family? Just see if I ever go on another picnic with you!" Aziraphale turned and stalked up the walk to the house. Crowley hurried after him.

"You're right, you're right! I'm very, very, _very_ sorry."

"It's not really me you should be apologizing to, but I don't think I ever want to face that family again. Apology accepted, in any case."

"It'll never happen again, I promise." Crowley smiled. "As long as you promise to never drive my car again."

Aziraphale laughed. "That is definitely a promise, my dear!"


	31. Drinks

Things ended in much the same way as they began: with a toast.

The champagne was a sight better than the wine they'd had in Rome, but the sentiment was mostly the same. It was just the two of them against the rest of the world, for better or worse. In Crowley's case, he had tried hard to make it worse; in Aziraphale's, trying to stop Crowley making it worse sometimes added up to making it better. In the end, for anyone keeping score, things had actually evened out. And so they had realized that they were more similar than not, and humanity was perfectly capable of taking care of itself (mostly) so they could relax and enjoy it together.

Over oysters that day, the toast had been something to the effect of 'I don't like you any more than you like me, but we're all we've got so let's make the best of it'. Later, at the Ritz, it had grown into something more like 'We love Earth as much as we love each other, and we're all we need, so let's make the best of it together.' 

And there were more toasts in between. Toasts to clever miracles or to even cleverer plans for temptation. Toasts to meetings with management survived, to prize winning rose gardens, to perfect scores on a primary school spelling test they had helped Warlock study all week for. Toasts to dolphins, and books, and humanity.

That dinner at the Ritz, while not the first they had shared, had been the first they had shared as simply a meal rather than an excuse to discuss one Plan or the other. It marked the end of them being on sides and the beginning of everything else. But was not so much an end to the book as it was the turning of a page to a new chapter.

Things began in much the same way as they ended: with a toast.


	32. Thank You

This month of writing has been such a fun challenge, especially since I knew very little about this story! It has been such a privilege to participate in this alongside such talented artists! If you haven't already, head to Instagram and check them out!

I would like to say thank you:

To renblakely and theladyflamee for the prompt list.

To my fellow fans, writers, and artists for the beautiful work they've created.

And to everyone who has given this work a read!

This story has been the first to really grab my brain in a long time. I get the sense that the same is true for a lot of the other fans. It's a story about choices, about doing the best with what you have, and trying to make the world a little better by being kind. It's a very human story even if the focus has been on the two least human characters. 

My hope is that the story will continue to inspire, and that no matter what you create, in fandom or out, you keep making! Do! Write! Craft! Draw! Make it your own and enjoy it. 

Thank you!


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